Travels In Magellania
by ComsatAngel
Summary: An entirely out of his depth Captain Walmsley travels to the strangest culture he can imagine: a human one. The Third Doctor meets an old enemy, who has reformed, and the Sontarans. Quite outstandingly brutal Sontarans, too.
1. Chapter 1

TRAVELS IN MAGELLANIA

Part One: Salamander, Sarah, Sarah and Sarah, So To Speak

There is an old saying: never judge a book by it's cover. Believe me, I found out how utterly true that is when I hopped-off with the Doctor to the far end of our galaxy, and confounded pretty much every prejudice ever acquired in my twenty odd years on this planet. Troopers at Aylesbury pestered me to give all the juicy details for weeks afterwards, only to be sadly disappointed – I'll come to that later. Not only that, I found out that my weakness in respect to women transcends biological boundaries. I'll come to that later, too.

I opened my mouth to explain what the acronym "CVRT" means to my Polish liaison, Kapitan Tadeusz Komorowski, who is more conveniently known as "Tad", and instead got interrupted by a phone call from UNIT's resident Medical Officer, Harry Sullivan, calling direct to my office.

'Ah, Captain Walmsley. Can you come down to the sick bay? The Doctor is asking for you.'

'I know you are,' I replied, slightly puzzled, before the penny dropped. 'Oh! _The_ Doctor!'

'Only you,' added Harry. 'On your own. Alone'

So I sloped off to the grandly-named sick bay, simply a small room with whitewashed walls. Harry lurked outside, looking a bit peeved. The Doctor, by his lights, ought to have been up and out of the bed of sickness he currently reclined upon, and Harry seemed to feel professionally challenged that the Time Lord wasn't skipping about like a six-year old.

'I know he's gotten better,' complained the doctor (lower case). 'But why on earth is he malingering in there?'

'No nice female nurses? Lack of ice cream? Super-comfy mattresses? Honestly, Harry, you're the doctor, you explain it.'

Grumbling, he sent me in.

The Doctor lay in bed, moaning and groaning terribly.

'You can pack that in. You sound like a lost soul,' I told him, sternly.

'Oh! It's you, John,' he said, promptly sitting up in bed, cheerfully and patently not ill in the slightest. 'Good. Firstly, is Sarah still on the premises?'

'I think so. She's been bedding down in one of the guest rooms instead of commuting back into London. Hanging around on the off-chance of seeing you when you get better. Oh – is that the problem?' - for his face expressed annoyance the instant he knew Sarah remained at Aylesbury.

'Hmph! Really!' he huffed. Cheeky sod. If I had charming and attractive young women wanting to meet me, the injured hero, I certainly wouldn't complain about it.

'Oh, I don't mean it like that,' he added, seeing my eyebrows rise. Then he snapped his fingers. 'And if I recall, you owe me a favour, John.'

That I did. Our detailed information about the Cybermen's weapons and tactics came courtesy the Doctor, wheedled out of him by me, playing the begging supplicant. After extracting the promise of a favour to be returned in future.

'Too true. What do you want me to do?' Visions of blackmailing QMS Campbell or breaking into Marconi swum before me.

'I want you to get Sarah out of the way for a day or two.'

That was all?

'Discreetly, John. Subtlety to be your watchword,' he also added, a little archly. As if I'd lock her in the back of a Landrover with no radio, bound and gagged, with the driver ordered to take her to Castlemuir up in the Hebrides via the B-roads at no more than twenty-five miles per hour!

Well, if the Doctor could call in favours like that, so could I.

'She will not only whiz out of here at high speed, Doctor, she'll be glad to go.'

He beamed an effusive grin, his craggy face lighting up.

'Splendid! Knew I could count on you!'

Back in my office, where Tad had been trying to do the Times crossword and failing bravely, I put a call through to the BBC. I was after another John, one who worked there. After enduring several secretaries and using my best officious voice and manner, I finally got a third John, not the one I was after but close enough. His manner was pretty stand-offish and hostile.

'I'm John Walters, John's producer. John's not here yet. He won't arrive - '

'Until later on this afternoon, I know. Tell him that Big John from the Tube would like to speak to him, soon as possible.'

I left the switchboard number and crossed my fingers. Tad had looked at me curiously, wondering at the plethora of John's being mentioned, no doubt. We plodded on with comparisons of motorbike performance, engine size, brake horsepower, top speed, cost of spares, availability of spares, until hunger drove us to the canteen.

'Not very thrilling,' commented Tad, stoking up on sausage, egg and chips.

'No, not at all. The toil that oils the wheels of UNIT, however,' I replied, attacking a steak pie and chips.

'Forsooth! What doth my eagle eye espy! Captain Walmsley, son of Wigan, eating a pie!'

Nick Munroe came into the canteen, looking very jolly, which either meant he'd slept with another man's wife or made a lot of money. He was followed by Lieutenant Eden, universally known as The Boy because he appeared to be a boy scout grown larger but not older and certainly not wiser.

Tad frowned at Nick, unable to understand the mock-Shakespearean gibberish.

'I'm from Wigan, Kapitan,' I explained. 'We are supposed to eat anything, as long as it's in a pie. Assault Platoon having the day off, Lieutenant?'

'No, sir. Lieutenant Spofforth and Sergeant Whittaker are drilling them this afternoon,' replied Eden. 'Dispersed tactics for use against Cybermen, a la Bannockburn.'

Great. Rolling around in mud and puddles across the fields of Aylesbury. No wonder Nick and his sidekick were here in the warm and dry.

'This Bannockburn – is it an Operation or an Exercise?' asked Tad. 'I have heard it called both.'

'It was an Exercise,' declared Nick, whose brainchild it was. 'But we, with our sense of humour, frequently call it an Operation.'

Tad nodded gravely.

'British humour. Yes. Benny Hill, Norman Wisdom, Ken Dodd.'

Hmm. No wonder Eastern Europe had a skewed view of the West, if that was what was construed as humour over there!

Before any cultural comparisons could take place, a call came through to the canteen phone, for me. The catering crew let me into the back room to take it.

'Hello?' I asked, hoping to hear a particular voice.

'Hello?' replied a quizzical voice at the other end. 'This is John Peel. Are you the rather large chap who – er – dissuaded some London low-lifes from attacking me? You mentioned the Tube in your message.'

'That's me,' I hastily agreed. 'Listen, Mister Peel, if you consider I did you a favour then, then you could do one for me now.'

'I don't do requests,' he protested, which nearly made me snap back, until I realised he meant requests for particular records.

'No, I wondered if you would allow a journalist to interview you.'

A silence settled on the phone, until a very puzzled Mister Peel replied.

'As a favour you want me to be interviewed? Sorry, how is that a favour? Oh, not that I object – it's just that I seem to be getting the benefit.'

Damn, he was slow on the uptake, this Peel chap!

'Not at all. I know the journalist, a young lady called Sarah Jane Smith. Freelance, with regular work in the Metropolitan and the Evening Standard.'

'Very well,' agreed Mister Peel. 'Sarah Jane Smith? Didn't she cover Captain Beefheart for the Standard when he gigged in London?'

Did she what? Captain _who_?

'Absolutely!' I lied, not knowing the first thing about it. 'The other thing is, could it be tonight?'

'If she can get here before nine, I suppose so. Walters and I will be in his office, so if she calls in at Reception, she can meet us there.'

'Thank you very much, Mister Peel,' I effused, and left to finish my food.

'There was half a pie left,' I accused the table at large, eyeing my now spotless and empty plate.

'Who were you calling, sir?' asked Nick, so I told him. His eyes practically fell from their sockets.

'John Peel! You know John Peel! Good God, do you deliberately set out to trump me!' He had to swig down his tea to regain his composure. 'How did this bitterly unfair circumstance come about? Sir.'

Well, whilst I was on detached duty at Kensington Office. Major Lyle was off on leave, so I commuted in to do the shift work. My work cycle coincided with a radio technician who also worked the night shift at the BBC, or so I thought. Over a couple of weeks, being the only two people on the platform or train, we happened to chat casually, and I found out his name was John. Late one night three unpleasant young men took a dislike to him, and circled him on the Tube platform, getting ready to give him a "right tonking" as they put it, as they objected to his taste in music – although how they knew what music he liked was beyond me at the time. I loudly warned them to leave the technician alone, and when they paid closer attention to "Fatty" and produced flick knives, I showed them the K-Bar in my boot and the .45 automatic in a fancy clip-on bum holster. Fatty then offered to send the nearest home with his brains in a bucket. Exit three very quiet youths, one of whom looked to have wet himself.

'They don't like my music!' the other John had jested, pale-faced, before revealing that he was a disk jockey on Radio One: John Peel. Feeling worried about what the Brig might say, I asked him not to mention the gun and knife. John Peel? I'd never heard of him.

'You've never heard of him! He plays Pink Floyd, The Grateful Dead, Barclay James Harvest!' stammered Nick, in the grip of righteous musical indignation. 'Top Gear! The Perfume Garden!'

'Programmes about cars and horticulture have no appeal, Nick.'

'They were music programmes, sir,' explained Eden, clearly embarassed at his superior officer's complete lack of contemporary musical knowledge.

Sarah, when I approached her, was slightly taken aback.

'An interview with a disk jockey, and tonight? I don't want to get groped in some seedy club, please!'

I explained. All above-board. Tickety-boo. The hallowed halls of Aunty Beeb.

'The late-night DJ?' She paused. 'He does play some nice reggae, actually. Toots and the Maytals, Misty in Roots, Lee Perry. Oh, go on!'

She grabbed a bag of her kit and was off, calling a taxi to get her to the station before six.

John's Most Cunning and Subtle Plan had worked!

From my lair in the BTO's office, I rang sick bay and told Harry to tell the Doctor that Sarah was gone.

'Not back before tomorrow, which is a Saturday, so she'll probably stay at her flat this weekend and come back to Aylesbury on Monday.'

Tad gave me a questioning look, followed by a questioning question.

'Why does Doctor Smith want Miss Smith out of the way?'

Good question! If I were a smoker, the fags would come out now and a whole little ritual would be gone through. Instead of that, I chewed a biro and considered.

'He is not romantically-attached to Miss Smith?' asked Tad, making me cough.

'Good Lord, no! No, not at all. Given that he's a humanoid alien, I don't know whether he is _capable_ of being attracted to a human female. Hell, it isn't the sort of thing I'd begin a conversation about!'

Oh would some power – I must have tempted fate in saying that.

The Pole nodded, pursing his lips in a business-like manner.

'He is very fond of her, however,' I muttered to myself. 'So if he were deliberately entering a situation of great peril he wouldn't take her along.'

Tad and I exchanged glances simultaneously, thinking the same thing.

The Doctor had come back to UNIT HQ almost beaten, burnt and bled to death. So far nobody knew what had happened on his little constitutional in TARDIS. If he didn't want Sarah along then it was a fair guess he was heading back into the danger that rendered him practically lifeless originally, since he'd never willingly or wilfully put her life in danger when there was no need.

I rang the Brig's office, only for the adjutant to tell me that Lethbridge-Stewart was off fighting tooth-and-nail with Buckinghamshire County Council about getting more land for our practice courses.

'Senior OC at the moment is Major Crichton, in the Computer Room, sir.'

I rang the Computer Room, where our semi-resident boffin was pottering about with punched cards.

'Sir! I strongly suspect that Doctor Smith is about to deliberately get himself into very hot water, similar to the situation he arrived here from.'

The chilly major hummed for a second.

'He "arrived here_"_ nearly dead! Get along and accompany him, Captain, and make sure he doesn't come to any harm.'

'Would it be possible to come along?' asked Tad, using his usual euphimism of "would it be possible" for "I want".

Nodding, I stood up and took hold of the dusty antique golf bag propped up in the corner, unzipping it.

'Pass me down the Nitro, will you?'

He handed me the huge double-barrelled rifle, which just fitted into the long, stiff leather case. The rounds were in my desk drawer, so they went in a pocket for golf balls.

'We are expecting elephants?' asked Tad, following in my rapid footsteps down to the Armoury.

'Expect anything in the next half hour,' I called over my shoulder. You never know what's going to happen when the Doctor gets involved.

Corporal Higgins, sitting doing stag in the Armoury sentry booth, gave me a surprised and perfunctory salute.

'Portable kit that delivers lots of firepower,' I half-asked, half-told him. 'What do we have? Because I want it.'

Rapid blinks from the Corporal, who had been disturbed reading the News of the World.

'M79 grenade launcher, sir. In the Blue firearms lockers. Ah – Armalite calibre minigun, Red locker. Fifty-seven mill recoiless rifle, with HE or steel, silver and gold flechette rounds, Red locker.'

I'd never heard _any_ of this kit being in our Armoury before. It was all American, and recent. Haste prevented Corporal Higgins being grilled about weapons, Tad scooping up an M79 and a wooden box of rounds for it. The grenade launcher, resembling a giant sawn-off shotgun, went in the golf bag, followed by loose rounds for it, to be followed in turn by No. 36 Pattern Hand Grenades. I finally crammed a Jimpy in, having taken the barrel and butt-stock off. I draped Tad in belts of ammo for the Jimpy, then espied a folding-stock Belgian version of our own SLR.

'Sir! Captain Beresford's put that aside for himself!' protested Corporal Higgins.

Too late. I slung it around my shoulders, taking half a dozen magazines for it and emptying clips of 7.62 rounds into the golf bag to fill up any remaining space. The bag was now so heavy Tad and I had to carry it between us.

To comfort the whimpering and worried Corporal, I signed out all the equipment.

'Don't worry, Corp,' I cheerily assured him. 'We'll probably come back alive, with most of this stuff, and some of it might even still work.'

Lugging the extremely heavy golf bag to the Doctor's underground lair was sweaty, slow work. My assumption was that the Time Lord wouldn't be hurrying, not now that Sarah had been safely sent out of harm's way, and that we could take our time.

We didn't have a choice about taking time. The lift up from the Armoury to the ground floor was slow, and we then needed to drag the massive bag down corridors, up and down steps, across the connecting walkway and into the lift that went down to the Doctor's lab. We only encountered one person on this journey, fortunately for us, as questions would undoubtedly have been asked about exactly what was going on - I had interpreted Major Crichton's order prettty broadly. Unfortunately, that single person was Lieutenant Munroe, who exhibited an unwelcome interest in what the bag contained.

'En route to the Doctor, too, eh? Me, I need to pass on this film of Exercise Bannockburn to him.'

Politely, he held the lift doors open for us as we gracelessly dragged the golf bag in.

'My Old Man would hit me with his clubs if I mistreated them like that, sir' he observed, in a carefully neutral tone. 'New American design, are they? Incredibly dense clubs?'

Biting back a retort at this gift of a sentence, I merely offered to take the film to Doctor Smith myself.

'Oh, no, sir!' he blithely replied. 'Brig's orders. Individually-numbered copies. Each to be signed for upon receipt, then countersigned by myself.'

Which meant not being able to get rid of him before we got to meet the Doctor. Damn!

My apprehension at having Nick dog our footsteps was confirmed when we actually got into the Doctor's lab.

TARDIS was still over in the corner, so he hadn't departed yet. In fact the tall, white-haired gent was busy carrying out electronic work on a bench, watched by – of all people – Sarah Jane Smith.

Taken aback for a second, I still managed an annoyed glare.

'I thought you were in London by now, getting ready to see John Peel!' I snapped. All that hassle for nothing!

The Doctor looked up from his work with a mischievous gleam in his eye. He seemed to be stifling a grin.

'I beg your pardon?' asked Sarah, looking blank.

'The interview. John Peel. Radio One,' I said, gradually slowing down because this really didn't make sense.

'Protective camouflage,' explained the Doctor, finishing off his electronic work. He put an arm around Sarah's shoulder and indicated us three officers.

'Gentlemen, may I introduce the Rutan scout previously held prisoner here.'

Not really "prisoner", more sort of "uninvited guest held at gunpoint". This particular Rutan scout had been stranded here on Earth since the late nineteenth century, apparently. Hearing about a Sontaran involvement in snatching scientists from this time, the nosey alien came a-sneaking into Aylesbury. The Doctor offered to take it back home, in what must have been the jaunt when he got severely injured.

Not-Sarah smiled brightly and saluted.

'Rutan Scout Senior Class, previously nominate EOH16181924707.'

I loomed a little menacingly toward the simulacrum, which flinched away from me.

'John, John, don't be so hostile,' chided the Doctor. 'Our involuntary guest has adopted a new name.'

'Winifred!' declared the copy of Sarah.

All three of us soldiers were exchanging looks of incomprehension and incredulity.

'Do you mean to say, Doctor, that you brought Billy Blob back – back into Aylesbury?' I asked, appalled at the Time Lord's cavalier attitude. 'An alien spy!'

Not-Sarah put on a pout.

'A scout, not a spy.'

'You are not Miss Smith?' asked Tad, looking surprised, the first time anything had taken him by surprise since we'd met.

'Can you sign for this, please?' asked Nick, offering the film canister.

'Gentlemen! Please!' shouted the Doctor above the din, creating a sudden silence. 'That's better. One thing at a time. John, you ought to recall that Rutan's don't have any individuality. They're hive members, forbidden to use terms like "I" or "me" or "mine". Adopting a name is a big break with Rutan societal programming.'

'Ohyes!' beamed the copy of Sarah, which I hoped I wasn't alone in finding bloody creepy.

'Look, could you not hang around looking like a copy of Sarah?'

'Yessah!' said the copy, firing off a salute.

'Who do you prefer? Yourself, John?' asked the Doctor, somewhat acidly. He pointed at Tad. 'And why is the Kapitan unflatteringly draped in swathes of bullets?'

Not-Sarah rolled her eyes, gave a big sigh and began to glow green, her outline dissolving and then reforming in the shape of another woman, a complete stranger to me. She wore a long frock, and had masses of dark brown hair, framing a cheery face complete with a long, elegant nose.

'Wow!' murmured Nick, his tongue nearly hanging out. 'Who else can she be?'

This stranger was entirely acceptable to me. What I didn't want were copies of anyone I knew running around in Aylesbury – the complications that might result were too horrible to contemplate.

'Gertie Millar!' said the Doctor, beaming in happy recognition. 'Star of the Victorian music hall,' he explained to us cultureless oiks. He ought to know, in his frock coat and ruffled shirt he looked like a Victorian stage magician himself. 'Happy now, John? Perhaps you could answer my question about – and what's that golf bag doing here?'

Tad sat down on a lab stool, staring at the new guise our visitor had adopted. The poor chap looked stunned.

'Does this sort of thing happen often?' he muttered to Nick, getting a shake of the head in reply.

'Why is your little Rutan friend back here, Doctor? Good God, she – it - they haven't been parading around HQ masquerading as other people, have they?' I asked, getting more worried by the minute.

We got our first lecture of the day from the Doctor, as Gertie Winifred Blob pottered about, looking us over with interest. Wheels were visibly revolving in Nick's head as he watched the alien; coming up with some sordid little scheme, knowing him.

'Winifred has been hiding in the TARDIS since I rescued her from execution on Ruta III, Captain Walmsley. As for the why, no sooner had she started to begin her debrief to a Scout Controller, than her Rutan superiors decided to execute her. The very concept of individuality, never mind using words like "me" or "mine", is total anathema to Rutan culture. Winifred came racing back to the TARDIS, since I suspected such a thing might happen and delayed my departure.'

'Contaminated culturally,' interrupted the alien. No, make that the humanoid alien. No, that's not right, either – the shapeshifting alien. Oh, I give up.

'Well,' I began, not sure how far we'd get with the Time Lord, who can be notoriously difficult to deal with when he's determined to buck authority. 'You got me to divert Sarah away from Aylesbury, because you intend to go back into the teeth of whatever peril left you in sick-bay.'

A wordless nod of acknowledgement.

'I have orders from Major Crichton to accompany and escort you, generally to try and make sure you avoid getting done-in, Doctor.'

'I have orders to remain with CaptainWalmsley,' said Tad.

Nick didn't have orders, he's just nosey, so he hung around.

The Doctor sighed, crossed his arms and gave us all a long, flinty look.

'Gentlemen -' which was a bad start, not using our names ' – I do _not_ intend to let a gang of armed desperadoes into the TARDIS!'

'Desperadoes?' queried Tad, not familiar with the idiom.

'Desperadoes? Where!' quipped Nick, looking around. The Doctor's flinty look became akin to granite. Cease the baiting, Nick!

'If you're sticking your neck out, Doctor, you need a bit of help alongside. You've carefully not told anyone what happened to get you knocked around so badly, but according to Harry, there wasn't a lot in it. A bit longer stuck in TARDIS would have finished you off.'

Wrong. A bit longer would have triggered a regeneration from the Doctor. He pointed this out to me, along with another correction.

' "The" TARDIS, John.'

Oh well. The definite article, you might say.

'Changing bodies now would be a shame, you've just gotten used to this one,' I tried. The suspicion of a smile played around the Doctor's mouth and he shook his head.

'I shall explain what happened to me, and what I'm about to do, and if – if – I feel so inclined, and you still wish, then I will take two of you along.'

The Doctor, as he explained, liked to take a trip every so often to the human colonies of the forty-second century, settled in the Lesser Magellanic Cloud. They had fled the Grey Empire – presumably human but we didn't get any details on that – and established their own disparate, slightly-Utopian and often mono-gee culture in the pocket galaxy of the LMC. Their little slice of the heavens was known as "Magellania", a cluster of a dozen populated worlds.

This particular trip was different, because the Doctor picked up a broadcast from a Magellanian spaceship, the _Seraphim_, announcing the rescue and retrieval of a Time Lord from the depths of space during a hyperdrive transit. They even included pictures of the unfortunate.

'This is where it begins to get complicated,' warned the Doctor.

_Begins_ to get complicated?

The supposed Time Lord rescued by the spaceship was in fact an impostor, a villain known as "Salamander". Seven years before, Salamander had tried to hijack TARDIS – sorry, _the_ TARDIS – and been ejected into the time-space vortex for his pains. The Doctor seemed quite pleased with his bewildering box of tricks for having the wits to get rid of an impostor, talking about "the old Girl" as if it were alive, almost.

So, the Doctor had ventured into the belly of the beast to rescue this twod Salamander, knowing that he was entering a trap. As he described it, the Sontarans hidden aboard the human spaceship had captured him, then discovered that he couldn't be conditioned by their hideous mind-bending technology, so they tortured him instead. To pass the time.

Nick muttered something uncomplimentary behind me, and Tad displayed profound dislike – a slight furrow in his brow. For him, that was like you or I jumping up and down shrieking venomous hatred.

'I think they initially wanted to trap a Time Lord into rescuing Salamander,' explained the Doctor. 'Since he so greatly resembled me, in my earlier regeneration. Any Gallifreyan except myself would have been fooled.'

He showed us a photograph, of a man who looked almost entirely similar to himself the previous incarnation over.

'Looks a bit Latin,' commented Nick.

'Mexican, actually,' corrected the Doctor. 'Now, coincidence dictated that I knew who he really was, hence the rescue attempt. However, after capture, my gracious Sontaran hosts got rather bored of me and began to focus on Winnie. Winifred.'

That made sense, according to what I knew of the Toad-men and the Billy Blobs. Mutual hatred, despise each other unto death, kill before allowing the other to pass the port, et cetera.

'One reason I'm so worried is that the Sontarans showing up in Magellania is very bad news, very bad news indeed.'

'Why's that?' asked Nick, beaming honest enquiry from every pore. 'Would property values drop with them as neighbours?'

'Hardly,' was the sardonic reply. 'They have a solid, materialistic reason for being present in Magellania. I need to find out why.'

'So – they passed up on the chance of getting their paws on your combined time-machine and space-ship?' asked Nick. 'They'd rather gut their hapless opponent with a spoon than have the TARDIS?'

A silent and ruminative nod from the Doctor.

'Would your wonder machine enable a person to know which horse wins this years Grand National? Or the FA Cup?' asked Nick, in a staggering display of personal greed versus the good of the galaxy. This mercenary attitude moved the Doctor to comment.

'The Eff Ay Cup! What on earth would that be, Lieutenant Munroe, and why would I want to know it?'

' "Football Association", Doctor Smith. You'd want to know it because it could win you a fortune on the pools or at the betting office!'

The Doctor's inquiring frown vanished, to be replaced by his dismissive "Oh that!" face.

'Money, pffft! I've got no use for it, Lieutenant!'

Nick gibbered a bit at that, since to him money and breathing are the two basic essentials for intelligent life on this planet.

'That sounds – well, forgive me, but it sounds like a damn Bolshevik.'

Since I knew that our Doctor Smith had been present at and during the Bolshevik Revolution, I bit the inside of my mouth and remained silent.

'Not to mention that, in ignoring your time-machine, the Sontarans seem to have a very blinkered view. They could have gone back in time and gotten rid of the – the - 'and Nick indicated our Winifred with a wave of his hand.

I was still trying to think of reasons why the Doctor ought to let us into his TARDIS to protect him from the fate lying in store for him, probably. Almost certainly. Maybe.

'I did wonder that myself,' mused the Doctor.

How about naked militaristic intent? I mused to myself. The Sontarans are repulsive murderous killers who exist in a completely militarised society, utter anathema to the Doctor, entirely outside his persona. Me, Captain Walmsley, on the other hand, would be far better able to understand, predict and baffle the Toad-men.

'You said only two of us can go with you, Doctor,' I began.

'Yes! I won't operate the TARDIS with a large crew. Five – five is not a good number,' he replied, looking troubled. 'Katarina and Sara – well, five is not a good number.'

'I think I ought to go, as a trained and experienced soldier. If you're up against these wretched Sontaran toad-warriors, then you need advice from someone who can second-guess them.'

He stroked a cheek with a forefinger, one of his habits when thinking under stress.

'Hmm. You may have a point there, John. An insight into the military mind.'

Tad stuck a finger up in the air, much as a small child in a classroom might.

'You wondered why the Sontarans wanted your fugitive Rutan? I may have a solution, thanks to Nick and his Bolshevik.'

Naturally this information intrigued the Doctor a lot more than mine, since it smacked of deductive intent and answered a problem he hadn't solved. He nodded at Tad.

'We in the Warsaw Pact are familiar with the arrival in Tsarist Russia of Vladimir Illyich Lenin, in 1917. Whilst the Soviets like to give the impression that Lenin appeared as if by magic, fully-grown, as it were, we in Poland are aware that he travelled to Russia courtesy of the German Reichswehr. He travelled to Petrograd in a sealed train with a crate of gold coins, provided by the German armed forces.'

From my Politics degree I knew this to pretty close to the truth. Lenin did indeed arrive in Russia, and began to spread Bolshevism. The fragile and rootless Russian state under Kerensky then collapsed.

'I see!' snapped the Doctor, also snapping his fingers.

He did, I didn't.

'Don't you see! The Sontarans want Winifred, want her over and above the TARDIS or a captive Time Lord. They intended to send her back to Ruta III, and to begin sowing the seeds of revolution. Individuality, self-expression, the concept of "me".'

Ah. That would be bad, apparently.

The Doctor looked at Tad very closely, very closely indeed.

'Don't be in Poland during "_solidarnosc_",' he said, using the Polish word for "solidarity". 'You have a future as an intelligent individual, Tadeusz. Don't mess it up!'

The Pole and I exchanged baffled looks. What?

'Okay, who gets to go with you?' asked Nick. 'Me, I can't wait to get amongst those triple-breasted, green-skinned alien princesses who can't keep their hands off human males!'

I _hope _he was joking. The Doctor looked at him with a combination of amazement and horror.

'If Moyra hears that, you'll be more concerned with the green-eyed monster than green-skinned ones,' I warned Nick. 'I'm sorry, Doctor, my idiot subaltern is clearly not suitable for, nor capable of, travel to the far reaches of the galaxy.'

' "Green-skinned"? "Alien princesses"?' repeated the Doctor faintly.

'Yes, your mammalian reproductive physiology is quite bizarre,' suddenly interrupted Winifred. 'Why, I had no idea what these - '

'YES! Thank you Winnie!' I interrupted, trying not to look at the lady in Edwardian clothing and her impromptu biology lecture. This air of farce dogged me at every step during the trip to Magellania.

'Lieutenant Munroe!' called the Doctor, heading for his TARDIS. 'I am leaving Winifred in your hands. It would be folly to take her along if the Sontarans are trying to capture her. Please look after her! '

Fox. Chicken coop. Taking care of.

I shouldn't complain. Thanks to the Doctor's attention being elsewhere, Tad and I managed to get our golf bag aboard the TARDIS.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two: From Sarah to Clara, From Earth to Magellania

Once inside the peculiar spaceship Tad's eyes got big as dinner-plates, and he paced across the control room, just to make sure it really was as large as it is. Our golf bag fell to the floor with a resounding clatter, and a grenade rolled out, slowly revolving until it came to rest at the Doctor's feet. He put a long toe on it, bringing it to rest, and cocked an eyebrow at me.

'Just in case. Precautionary. Also makes a good paper-weight,' I tried.

He tapped the weapon forcefully and it rolled back into the golf-bag.

'The plan, John, is to gain access to Salamander _without_ creating a big fuss. Covert and stealthy. Like mice!'

Tad draped the belts of ammunition he'd been carrying over a hatstand, pointing speechlessly at the door which led further into the TARDIS. Poor fella. TARDIS can be a bit much to take first time.

Actually he had been indicating another member of the crew, who smiled brightly at all three of us.

'Hello – Miss Smith?' said Tad.

Yes, it was Sarah Jane Smith – again. My temper began to rise, and I was impolite enough to point.

'I know you're not the real Sarah, and we left the old copy behind, so who the hell are you!' Another thought hit home. 'This isn't some sort of time-effect, is it, Doctor?'

'Ah,' said the Doctor. 'Gentlemen. May I introduce Winifred's offspring, Clara.'

Rutans, "as any exographer knows", reproduce by meta-mitosis after ingesting enough energy, splitting to create two where there was only one before. During her sojourn in the TARDIS, Winifred dined on enough energy to produce an offspring, whom she named Clara. Clara didn't have the experience or background of Winifred and so was able to imitate only a few characters, Sarah being one of the easiest to manage. When I took a few steps closer to Clara/Sara/whateva, she hissed at me and threw up her hands.

'Careful, John! This is an immature Rutan, new to human culture. Nowhere near as anthropomorphised as her parent, and liable to react aggressively.'

'This is very confusing,' commented Tad. Our British ways were corrupting him, since he managed to understate fantastically. The Doctor took pity on us, Tad frowning and me scowling.

'It is. Clara, come with me and we'll get you an acceptable body-template.'

Good. The TARDIS's time-rotor began to rise and fall with it's characteristic wheezy groaning, whilst the Doctor took Clara off into the depths of the machine.

'And don't touch _anything_!' he called back, pointing at me.

Neither of us knew how long the Time Lord was going to be, so I emptied the golf-bag and reassembled the Jimpy, loading an ammo belt. I toted the paratroop-version SLR, seeing that it had an automatic-fire selector. Tad hefted the Nitro Express, which he had rashly fired at the ranges, nearly dislocating his shoulder.

'We are expecting dinosaurs?' he asked.

'Sontarans. I joked about them being toad-men – _bufo sapiens _– but notice that the Doctor hasn't criticised or contradicted me? Maybe I guessed right.'

'More reptilian than toad, John – good grief! Are you planning on waging war!' exclaimed the Doctor, striding back into the control room and spotting our weapons neatly laid out on the floor.

'It's a found _objet d'art_ display for the Tate,' I tried. Tad choked slightly at this blatant lie.

'Yes. Quite. Allow me to introduce Clara in her next guise.'

He swung the access door open and out stepped a tall, long-haired woman, strikingly good-looking and with cheekbones sharp enough to shave with. Complete unknown to me, but Tad perked up strangely.

'This particular fascia comes from the cover of a rare record I have. She is an avante-garde jazz musician,' said the Doctor patronisingly. 'Annette - '

'Peacock!' finished Tad. 'Yes, yes, I know her! Gary Peacock, synthesizers, jazz music.'

Belatedly, I recalled that he'd told Nick and I several weeks ago that he liked jazz music.

'Oh no!' groaned the Doctor. 'I picked someone so obscure nobody would recognise her!'

'Please!' said Tad, a twinkle in his eye. 'Do not ask Clara to alter on my behalf. I am quite comfortable with her looking this way.'

I'll bet he was! His wife, Agnieta, whose photograph I have seen, greatly resembled this Peacock woman. I don't know if the pash about Annette came first, or Annette reminded him of Agnieta.

'Can we get back to the plan about rescuing the Salamander?' I reminded everybody. 'Plan, rescue, escape.'

'Hopefully to include the spaceship crew as well,' added the Doctor. He unrolled a big blueprint on the TARDIS floor, using a grenade to hold down each corner. 'This is a schematic of the spaceship in question.'

'How big is the crew?' I asked, expecting three or four.

'Twenty four,' said the Doctor in an off-hand manner, stroking his upper lip and looking intently at the plans.

'And what are the dimensions of the space-vessel?' asked Tad, casting alternate glances at Clara-in-disguise and the blueprints.

'Oh, about a kilometre along the major axis, and about two hundred metres in diameter,' answered the Doctor. He looked up at the sudden silence and grinned. 'Bigger than you expected?'

Indeed. I anticipated something spindly and small, along the lines of the Apollo Lunar Lander, instead of a ship as big as a skyscraper.

'Here. This is the bulk storage monocoque, carrying capacity about twenty five million cubic tonnes when full. I anticipate that the Sontarans will have concealed themselves in here.'

The cylindrical bulk storage sections on the blueprint occupied an area between the engines at the stern and crew compartments at the front of the hull. A completely covered walkway ran directly through the middle of the storage sections, leading from engine room to bridge.

'This pyramid of compartments at the bow constitutes the bridge, medical unit, dormitory, recreation area, various stores and the communications suite. As you can see, the access tunnel passes axially through the middle.'

The Doctor tapped the medical unit.

'That's where they were holding Salamander last time.'

Great! We knew exactly where the prisoner was. Drop the TARDIS next to his bunk-bed, cut restraints, quick in, quick out.

The Doctor displayed hidden depths of telepathic intent and gave me a long hard look.

'But of course we need to rescue the crew, also. Otherwise the Sontarans will simply kill them once their prisoner has gone.'

Bloody Sontarans!

'And I don't want a brutal slaughter, either. The less bloodshed the better.'

Bloody Time Lords!

The Doctor gave a slight cough of embarassment, meaning he was about to mention something unpleasant. More unpleasant.

'I'm afraid we can't land inside the _Seraphim_ before my previous rescue attempt. It will have to be afterwards, otherwise we risk a catastrophic interruption in causality.'

Whoopee, the news just got better. Afterwards, when the Sontarans would be expecting a renewed rescue attempt; afterwards, when they'd be patrolling in strength; afterwards, when they'd have all sorts of alarm systems set up. Great.

Tad asked another important question.

'How many of the toad-men are there?'

The Doctor mused and hummed a tune.

'Let's see – they'd need space-going transport, and enough troops to occupy and mount an ambush aboard the _Seraphim_ – the spaceship. I'd guess a Valt-class destroyer. Thirty crew, about a hundred boarded troops and at least three or four fighter craft.'

This got better and better. Outnumbered thirty to one, with a requirement to rescue twenty four hostages as well as Salamander.

'How did the Sontarans capture Salamander? Could we take him away using the same method?' asked Tad, continuing his run of sensible questions.

'You hit the metaphorical nail on the head, Kapitan,' admitted the Doctor. 'My best guess, which they hinted at, was that they'd picked him up in a time-corridor, entirely at random.'

I knew a little about time-corridors, the poor cousin of time-travel. Whittaker and Butler had been using a crude version to import their dinosaurs into 1975 London. The Daleks had a more sophisticated model, and the Sontarans used them, too. Still, it seemed to be stretching coincidence a bit far. Didn't it?

'Not really,' explained the Doctor. 'There aren't that many artefacts drifting around in the vortex. Salamander, being a diffuse potentiality in the continuum, could have been encountered by anybody. I've kept an eye open for him during my travels, but obviously the Sontarans got to him first.' He sighed. Typical Doctor, feeling sorry for a hijacker. 'Neither of you have asked why I want to rescue him so badly, which is forebearance I appreciate.'

Tad and I both leaned in closer, not actually asking in so many words, just implying that we were asking.

'Naturally I feel partly responsible for his ejection into the space-time continuum.' He forestalled my sarcastic comment before it reached my lips. 'Nor is that all. More importantly, if Salamander is not rescued from the Sontarans, they will continue to play their "rescued Time Lord" trick. Who knows who will get fooled next time?'

Aha. A pre-emptive strike. This sounded more familiar to me. Before we got any further, the Doctor passed a small white cube to me. He was off to plan, plot and tinker in the depths of TARDIS.

'You need to know more about the Sontarans, both of you. Hold this in your hand and say "Sontaran" clearly to it.'

He could have made billions with a device like that, a small computerised 3D display unit activated by sound.

'Sontaran,' I enunciated into the cube.

'SONTARAN,' replied the device. 'PROJECTING.'

A life-size replica of a Sontaran appeared in the console room, scaring Clara silly. She hissed and spat, throwing her arms up. I walked through the three-dimensional projection, passing the cube to Tad, making the Sontaran shimmer and wobble.

Damn, this was risky! Rutans are able to kill with an electrical field they generate organically. Clara didn't have her mother's easy understanding of humans, nor the ability to comprehend English either, seemingly, which meant John might end up being cooked alive.

'Artificial. Pretend. Not real,' I stated, waving an arm through the Sontaran's ugly, brutal and toadish head. The image swam and wavered. Clara leaned in closer, looking intently, forgetting that she was scared. With a sudden dart of her eyes, she looked at me.

'Pretend. Not real. Image,' she said, in an artificial monotone, a strangely modulated sound. Then she waved her hand into the image, making it dance erratically. 'Pretend!' she crowed.

Yes, wonderful, we'd got that out of the way. The cube continued to send out images, accompanied by information.

Sontarans originally came from a high gravity world with an extremely dense atmosphere. Their bodyform tended to the squat and muscular, averaging one hundred and ninety kilogrammes. Eyesight not too brilliant, but their hearing was very good. Genetic manipulation had created several different phenotypes, most obviously those which had five digits instead of three. Different phenotypes had developed in accordance with different specialisations needed for the war against the Rutans – Medical, Military Assessment, Intelligence, etcetera. They came by the million, our toadies, cloned and raised to make huge armies for combat with the Rutans. Long past the need for primitive nuclear energy, they used terullium-based technology.

Another nasty little tweak the Sontarans had was their conditioning technology, with which they were able to programme people to obey them. Like hypnosis, but far more intense. The _Seraphim_ crew had all been conditioned; not too heavily, according to the Doctor, or they wouldn't be able to function properly and operate the spaceship.

'How do we kill the toad-men?' asked Tad. Bright lad, good question.

"LETHAL FORCE APPLICATION," announced the cube. A series of white arrows appeared around our life-sized armoured Sontaran warrior, with labels attached. "Aural cavity" seemed to be what the toad-men had for ears, which were "vulnerable to penetrating attack". "Probic vent" was a valve on the rim of the helmet seal, which was "fatal if pierced" or "causes unconsciousness if struck hard". "Fontanelle" on the top of the head, if hit, would "cause immediate death due to brain haemorrhage".

The bare-headed Sontaran promptly exchanged it's naked bonce for a helmet, which removed the weaknesses named above. Or, if not removed totally, at least rendered them less applicable. But it would impair hearing and make their vision straight-ahead only. Believe me, there hasn't been an armour invented that allows the wearer to see and hear as well with it as without it.

'What weapons do they use?' I asked, professionally interested.

"WEAPONRY" declared the cube. "SPECIFY HAND-HELD, CREW-SERVED, VEHICLE-MOUNTED OR SPACE VESSEL ARMAMENT"

'Hand-held? Yes, make it hand-held.' With a hundred of the toadies running around, I wanted to know what we might be up against.

Sontarans used rheon weapons, that came as a wand, a pistol or a carbine. Instantly fatal to non-armoured organic life-forms massing less than three hundred kilos, at varying ranges up to a couple of hundred metres.

'Boning-up on our unpleasant opponents?' asked the Doctor, having returned from wherever he was plotting in the first place, carrying bits of equipment.

'Oh yes,' said Tad. 'And we do not like them.'

'One of them would make two of me, but only half as handsome.'

'What the cube doesn't say – thank you, I'll have it back now – what it doesn't say is that the Sontarans are very literal-minded. Typical humourless clones.'

His first order of business was to proof Tad against conditioning, with a Heath Robinson device consisting of a tiny spinning mirror lit with a small laser. The Pole only took ten minutes to get the anti-mind mashing treatment, against the thirty it took the Doctor to sort me out in Russia. Then again, he said I had all the suggestibility of a house-brick.

'Humour, you see, is a very useful human survival trait. A tremendous stress reliever. Instantly creates an esprit between individuals,' continued the Doctor whilst giving Tad the magic mirror treatment, muttering into the Kapitan's ear.

'Does that mean Nick and I are forging the bonds of brotherhood when we bicker amusingly?' I asked.

'I wonder! Lieutenant Munro and "forging" do seem to go together, to coin a phrase – humour, John, humour! There you go, Kapitan, all done.'

Tad blinked dopily a few times, before catching sight of Clara.

'Agnieta!' he blurted. 'Give Tad a kiss!'

Clara shrank back against the TARDIS wall, whilst I put a big paw on Tad's shoulder and restrained him. The Doctor snapped his fingers in front of the Pole's nose a few times, sighing.

'Oh!' exclaimed our comrade in arms, shaking himself, then catching sight of Clara a second time and swearing. This thirty seconds of desire, embarassment and anger was the most emotive I'd ever seen the taciturn Pole.

'After our touch of farce, can we get on with the rescue plan?' I asked again. 'We haven't really moved forward.'

'Oh but we have,' contradicted the Doctor. 'Tad is now mentally armoured against the Sontarans. Both he and you are informed about them and their capabilities. Clara – did you understand the cube's information?' Clara nodded. 'And so is Clara. Moreover, I have a paradigm for rescuing Salamander and the _Seraphim_'s crew.'

Terrific! What could go wrong now? I had to wonder. Fate must have felt tempted.

'I am sorry about, er, propositioning you,' apologised Tad to Clara. 'I was confused.'

'Don't like _you_!' she replied, tossing her head back, then pointing at me. 'Like fat human!'

Honestly, it's the way my dress uniform hangs; I can't afford to have it remedially-tailored like Nick Munroe. He'd lose bladder control from laughter if he ever got to hear about this scene.

The Doctor's paradigm amounted to asking me how I would go about rescuing Salamander. I pored carefully over the _Seraphim_ blueprint, looked at the weapons we had, included Clara in our plans and worked out an operation.

Firstly, access the interior of the spaceship via one of those enormous entrance bays. Made for ore loading, they could easily accommodate the TARDIS. Then we'd get onto the axial tunnel, working in two pairs. First pair leading, second pair watching the rear, and we'd go with all the firepower we could manage to stagger under, given how many Sontarans were facing us. Leave wired grenades behind to act as deterrents. Blow the power lines leading to the crew compartments, then make an assault on the medical unit, liberate Salamander, forcibly escort any crew members encountered back to the TARDIS. Leave a timed bomb in the crew compartments that destroyed the entire bridge after we'd left, and another in the cargo bay timed to go off after we'd left.

Bywords would be speed, maximum firepower given the disparity in numbers, and ruthless killing of Sontarans.

'Splendid!' chortled the Doctor, proceeding to ignore everything I'd suggested. 'What I want is to create a meteor strike, depressurisation, and loss of control on the bridge, without any of it actually happening.'

'Does "paradigm" mean "ignore John"?' I asked, with a touch of sulkiness. 'I mean.'

'Tut!' scolded the Doctor.

'Tut!' joined in Clara, pointing at me. Okay, criticism from the alien Blob Lady I could do without.

'You did your job perfectly, John,' continued the Doctor. 'Except that what you recommend is the exact opposite of what I intend to do. Your rational military mind will come up with solutions that the Sontarans would also, logically, come up with.'

Hey, no problem. John just loves to come up with rational military solutions. I wasn't so sure about being lumped in the same bucket as the toad-men.

'So I am aware of what to avoid,' finished the Doctor. 'What we need is a covert, insidious, thoroughly underhand and subtle method. Hence my operation.'

'Arranging a meteor strike that is not real – that is rather difficult,' commented Tad. 'Likewise, the human beings controlled by Sontarans may not be ready to relinquish control to yourself.'

We got an enigmatic wiggle of the eyebrows for that query and our pains.

'You two can put your skills with mayhem to constructive use.' He began to outline the plan, illustrating various points with a long piece of electronic ware that seemed to have been put together in a hurry, idly juggling another mysterious object that resembled a big silver golf-ball. The difficult part was going to be getting into the bridge, where the Doctor and I were convinced the Sontarans would be keeping watch. Not only that, there were bound to be other toadies wandering around on patrol, plus human crew conditioned to tattle to the toadies if they encountered any other rescue attempts. We did have an ace up one sleeve, however.

The first problem we had was landing the TARDIS. It wasn't silent, for one, and the Doctor needed to pilot it to a deserted room in the interior of the spaceship, very precisely. A stray Sontaran lurking nearby would scotch our plans before they got going.

Thus, the Doctor scanned the dark, empty room we landed in, and scanned it carefully. Two 360 degree sweeps. No enemy, no artefacts, no interest.

'Big empty box,' commented Clara. Not quite correct, but getting there, since we had landed in an empty "warehouse", four walls thirty feet high and not an item to be seen (her English wasn't very good yet, a fact we had to work around).

The TARDIS doors were opened and we all stepped out, gingerly. The apparent gravity was imparted by centripetal force, created by the crew compartments rotating around the axial tunnel.

Brrr! was my first response. Very cold, and pitch black – no, not quite, a tiny light set high on the ceiling cast a faint glow. After twenty seconds we acquired a little night vision, and split into pairs.

My second impression of the spaceship room was it's strange smell – a combination of staleness and chemicals, unsettling after the unobtrusive ambience of the TARDIS. A slight echo informed us that the room was empty, if we hadn't been paying attention to the scanner.

After waiting a good minute, Tad and I headed for one pair of doors set in the wall, opposite those that the Doctor and Carla were making for. Neither pair opened when pushed or pulled, until I noticed what looked like a control pad to one side of the doors, a slightly darker panel flush against the metal. Lock or lightswitch, must be one or the other.

Not finding any exit on his side of the empty storage space, the Doctor and Carla came back towards us, just as the door irised open without me touching the wall panel.

' - wish there _were_ scanners in here!' muttered a man to himself, striding into the room. Catching sight of the two strangers approaching, and Tad off to his right, he stopped dead. He wore a baggy one-piece plastic overall, "2 TEC Arrhuis" stencilled on the back, which I could see from my vantage point off to his left and behind him.

'You again!' he gasped, his back lit up brightly by artificial lights in the corridor outside and his breath fuming in the cold of the chilly compartment. Okay, okay, so the Doctor wasn't a stranger to him.

'You don't have to warn the Sontarans,' said the Time Lord, quickly and quietly.

'I don't want to but I _have_ to,' gritted the crewman, edging away from Tad, who looked coolly back at him. 'I _must_!' grated the intruder.

Shaking, he turned to run back, turning and accidentally running his chin onto my fist.

The Doctor gave me a cross look as he examined the unconscious crewman.

'What!' I hissed. 'He was going to raise the alarm.'

Deciding that the presence of a crewmember, even if unconscious, meant that the lights could go on, the Doctor pressed the wall panel twice. At the first push the door irised shut, and with the second a series of brilliant lights concealed in the ceiling came on.

'I could have paralysed him, instead of you rendering him practically comatose. Really, John!' he scolded.

John felt unwanted and unloved.

'Big punch!' enthused Clara. 'Good human John!'

John felt unwanted. The less said about the other the better. Tad looked from me to Clara and shook his head.

Producing an ampoule of _sal volataire_, the Doctor cracked it under the nose of Aarhuis, who wrinkled his face, coughed and jerked upright, only to come eye-to-laser with the Doctor's little anti-hypnosis mirror on a stick. Clara sniffed interestedly at the acrid reek of the little glass capsule.

'Poo! Bad stink!' she said, waving a hand in front of her nose. How did she smell when her nose was merely a simulacrum?

'AH!' gasped Aarhuis the instant the laser ceased shining into his eyes. He rubbed both eyes with the back of his hand, looking a bit hammered.

'Don't worry, you're amongst friends,' explained the Doctor, giving a winning smile. Damn it, I wish I could reassure with a smile like that!

'Some friends,' winced the man, feeling the bruise on his chin. 'Hey!' He looked up at us all, smiling. 'Free! I'm free! I don't have to obey those - ' and he gave a long, forty-second century collection of impolite descriptions of the Sontarans.

'You recognised me from my previous visit. Well, I and my companions are here to rescue Salamander. Plus your crew, if at all possible.'

The idea, in brief, was to get the Sontarans to leave voluntarily. Not easy! We could have gotten a few crew away in the TARDIS, or the ship's lifecraft, but the Doctor wanted all of them rescued.

The crewman struggled upright from his sitting position, taking us all in. He spotted me and bounced over to give me a big hug.

'Hey, steady on, I'm British, we don't go in for that sort of thing,' I blurted, not expecting such a touchy-feely response.

'We need to get to the bridge unseen,' explained the Doctor, going over the first part of our plan.Aarhuis shook his head in furious denial.

'No! No, can't be done, and you'd die trying. There's at least five Sontarans on the bridge at any given moment. Not only that, they have guards on the major corridor intersections. About twenty in total. The intersections are monitored by camera from the bridge.'

His capture turned out to be a major stroke of luck for us, since he knew everything the Sontarans were doing. They were posted in corridors to watch for any Time Lord arrival, whilst he had been sent to check possible arrivals in out of the way rooms. Five of the toadies loitered on the bridge just in case other humans made conventional contact about the rescuee. The twenty four personnel of the _Seraphim_'s crew had now declined to seventeen; the Sontarans having sent seven out of an airlock without their suits as un-necessary to maintain the baited spaceship. The Valt-class destroyer currently sat in the rear of the bulk cargo monocoque, where most of the Sontaran troops also remained, under orders to emerge only when the General Alarm was sounded.

'They sent my partner out of that airlock,' said Aarhuis, a touch of madness in his eyes. 'Anything I can do to get back at them, I will.'

'Join our toad-smashing team,' I lightly told him, risking a touch of greasy eyeball from the Doctor.

'Can you get to the bridge without arousing suspicion?' asked the Doctor. Aarhuis nodded, stroking his blond goatee in puzzlement. The Doctor passed over that long cobbled-together piece of electronic gear. 'Good. Hide this in your overalls. When you hear the alarm go off for a meteorite impact, press the button set into the end and be prepared for anything. Oh – what's the name of your captain?' No more details than that, just to ensure the crewman reacted with the proper degree of surprise.

'Meroon Fontenbloem.'

Before he left, Aarhuis let slip important information.

'The Sontaran officers have got specially-adapted electronic lenses in their helmets. One of them boasted that they can pick out a Rutan at five hundred metres. What do you think of that? What's a Rutan, anyway?'

We sent him on his way without enlightening him – too much information. Aarhuis reckoned on six or seven minutes travel to get onto the bridge. Eight minutes after he left us, Tad and I sneaked into the corridor outside our arrival point. Tad carried our M79, the grenade-firing gun that looked like a giant single-barrelled shotgun. Travelling clockwise brought us to another warehouse-sized room, revealed in all it's chilly dark echoing emptiness when the door irised open. Tad carefully measured his distance from the doorway and I closed the door, which irised shut around the M79 barrel.

I looked over my shoulder at the Doctor and Clara, who had also come into the corridor. The Doctor was ferreting around in a spaghetti-like bundle of wiring tugged from a wall conduit. He held up his big silver golf ball and nodded to us.

Tad pulled the trigger, recoil knocked the barrel free, the door irised shut just in time to avoid venting blast into the corridor as the M79's grenade blew a metre-wide hole in the opposite wall, which just so happened to be _Seraphim_'s outer hull.

Instantly, klaxons began to squawk in the corridor, and the hidden lighting overhead abruptly changed to flashing red from cool white.

'HULL BREACH! HULL BREACH!' boomed a gigantic artificial voice. 'HULL BREACH! HULL BREACH!'

Aarhuis told us later that he'd heard and felt the wrenching impact of our sabotage, instantly understanding what "fake meteor strike" amounted to. Everyone else on the bridge looked surprised and alarmed, emotions which increased immensely when our de-conditioned technician pressed the stud of the Doctor's magic wand and everything electronic within fifty metres suddenly failed. A sphere of fifty metres diameter compromised the whole bridge.

Tad and I cautiously walked back to the Doctor, who slapped Clara on the back.

'Go and do your thing!' he ordered. Clara's outline shimmered into a green blur, rapidly resolving into a copy of Aarhuis. Not part of the original plan, but we had to improvise on the go.

'Okay!' beamed the copy of Aarhuis, setting off at a slow jog. Tad and I caught up with the Doctor.

'She's not going to run into any Sontaran officers, is she?' I asked.

'Officers do not stand sentry duty,' interrupted Tad. 'Officers will be standing on the bridge being important.' He caught my eye. 'But your concern is duly noted.'

Leaning closer to his silver golf ball, the Doctor spoke clearly and calmly into it.

'Attention please, attention please. This is Captain Fontenbloem speaking. _Seraphim_ has been hit by a meteor strike, destroying her bridge and catastrophically breaching our hull. Self-sealing of cargo bays will start in sixty seconds. All hands stand by to abandon ship. I say again, all hands to abandon ship.'

This – this was one of our stickier moments. Nobody on the bridge could contradict us – as long as Aarhuis had used his magic electronic wand. Given that the hull had been breached, and the bridge destroyed, and that the bulk monocoque would start to seal in less than a minute, any Sontarans remaining in the crew compartments ought to get out of the Seraphim and head for their own vessel, lurking in the cargo bays. Those five toadies hanging around the bridge wouldn't know anything except a suspected impact and the loss of all power and systems. What would they do? The Doctor had to guess at that, taking my responses into account.

As we learnt later, Carla's little metamorphosis en route to the bridge worked marvels. In her Aarhuis disguise she'd slipped past two pairs of Sontaran sentries at corridor intersections, then changed into a Sontaran, a fatally-injured one, and crawled back to the last pair of sentries. After seeing a dying Sontaran crawling back from the direction of the bridge, gasping "Bridge - destroyed!" (the best her language skills could come up with) one of the sentries sent a message back to their own spaceship. Carla waited until they sent the message, then electrocuted both of them as they came to retrieve her body. A touch of ruthless, that Rutan lass.

Currently, this information was unknown to us. The Doctor, Tad and I moved from the corridor and back into our brightly-lit, if still extremely cold, warehouse. That giant, impossibly calm voice braying about hull breaches was still going.

'Hello?' said the control panel next to the door, making me jump in startlement. 'Hello? This Carla.'

Showing a more rapid recovery from fear than either of us humans, the Doctor tapped the panel three times.

'Hello Carla, this is the Doctor. What's going on at your end? We haven't seen anything here.'

Thanks to his telescope we could actually see out of the doorway without exposing ourselves; the door had irised shut on the brass barrel, leaving it projecting into the warehouse three feet above the ground, and out into the corridor about half an inch. Nobody passing would have noticed the lens in the dead centre of the door's iris unless they were looking for it. Nobody had passed by looking for it.

'Kill two more Sontaran. Other Sontarans run away, try to get home. More Sontaran maybe go for Slamander.'

She couldn't pronounce "Salamander" properly.

So – twenty Sontarans had now become sixteen. An undetermined number were fleeing, probably trying to get back to their Valt-class destroyer before the bulkhead doors in _Seraphim_'s cargo section irised shut and trapped them on what they thought was a dying spaceship.

A small party of those fleeing Sontarans came rumbling down the corridor outside our vantage point, making the walls and floors shake – human design wasn't intended for baby elephants. Three of the toadies, according to Tad, who crouched on the floor and peered into the telescope.

Aaruis said that there were different routes via tunnels and accessways across the crew compartments, so the escaping Sontarans might very well avoid our corridor when getting back to their own vessel. Good, had been the Doctor's consensus. He wanted all the toad-men away from this part of the ship. Me, I'd have been happy getting rid of them by the application of lethal force, lots and lots of it.

Another lone baby elephant went thundering by.

'The diet starts tomorrow,' I muttered, shivering slightly from either cold or nervous anticipation.

'Ssst!' hissed the Doctor, having just nipped over to the TARDIS. He passed me a spade, my favourite close-in anti-personnel weapon. I had Captain Beresford's swish folding-stock FN slung over my back, but I chose to carry the spade. The Doc probably reasoned I was less likely to kill with the gardening tool than the gun, knowing him. Honestly, I've never met anyone more bothered about not killing the enemy who is trying to kill you.

'Watch it!' whispered Tad. Another Sontaran had come along, striding purposefully this time instead of running in thinly-disguised panic. 'Officer's flashing and epaulettes,' warned Tad.

This Sontaran stopped a mere pace after passing our door, stopping and stooping down.

'Damn! He has discovered the opened conduit!' whispered Tad. Behind me, the Doctor snapped his fingers in annoyance that a Sontaran officer would bother with such a trivial matter as a conduit leaking wires.

Before anyone could react, I hit the door control panel and stepped out when it irised silently open. The Sontaran was kneeling, inspecting the plastic cover panels that had been carefully opened, and the optical wiring that had been equally carefully teased out of the protective channels. His back was towards me, until I suddenly registered on his senses as filtered via the helmet sensors. He began to turn, rising up and moving clockwise to bring his pistol to bear.

Nowhere near quickly enough! Like I said, no armour ever worn gives the wearer the same freedom of the senses as does lack-of-armour. I gained a two-second advantage over him, thanks to that helmet.

That would be the probic vent, I thought, swinging the spade down with considerable force to wallop the thumb-sized unit sticking out from the Sontaran's helmet collar. Mr Officer grunted painfully and sprawled headlong on the corridor flooring, so I gave him another smack for good measure, and another one just for the road. My colleagues emerged from the warehouse in time to prevent a few more smacks of the spade. Tad darted across the corridor to scoop up the rheon pistol, tucking it into his belt.

I stuck the edge of my spade between the Sontaran's helmet and suit, wedging and twisting the blade like a penny, popping the helmet free. It skittered across the floor and bounced off the far wall.

'Really, John, you are incorrigible!' said the Doctor, telling me off. 'You could create mayhem with a salad spoon! He would have moved on,' and he indicated our prisoner.

'He would not!' I retorted, hotly. 'He was all set to discover us, the saboteurs.'

Tad coughed.

'Perhaps moving the body is more important?'

Mutually embarassed nods later, all three of us dragged the unconscious Sontaran from corridor to store-room. The stumpy little sod weighed an absolute ton. A sombre warning for me – avoid fisticuffs with them, they could without doubt soak up a lot more punishment than I could and deal it out more effectively.

'Now, how do we tie him up?' I asked. Rope wouldn't work, not strong enough. Piano wire was recommended amongst the old sweats in my regiment, except we didn't have any here. The Doctor pre-empted me, producing a small black device the size of a matchbox from a capacious pocket. He pressed it against the Sontaran officer's leather jackboot, producing a small, brightly-glowing blue blob.

'Lift his legs up, will you?' he asked. I hefted both beefy limbs clear of the floor, whilst the Doctor moved his hands like a stage magician around those legs, finally pressing his little black box against the original blue blob. Looking closer, I could see a fantastically thin blue wire encircling the leather boots.

'Spun sapphire,' explained the Doctor to the world at large. He repeated the process around toady's wrists. 'Unbreakable once the bond cools.'

'He looks a pretty desperate customer, and strong to boot,' I pointed out. 'They might break.'

The Doctor shook his head knowingly.

'Oh no. With microfilaments like that, his limbs would sever long before the wire broke.' Standing back, he looked proudly on his work of confinement. I also looked, with less pride and considerably more malice. Send seven people out of the airlock, eh?

'D'you think he'd thrash around if I kicked him awake? Much?'

I got a look from beneath a raised eyebrow. Well, I was only joking. Wasn't I?

Our friend Aarhuis proved how smart he was a few seconds after we captured our prisoner.'Doctor? I've managed to leave the bridge,' exclaimed the warehouse's door radio. 'The five Sontarans who were there – all officers – have gone to the medical suite to get Salamander.'

Moving very fast indeed for a man of his supposed centuries, the Doctor got to the communications panel and replied in two seconds flat.

'Get down here, Aarhuis, as quickly as possible! Just don't get caught by any stray Sontarans. I think we've got rid of all except those five you mentioned.'

'En route,' replied Aarhuis.

John's mental maths left six toadies unaccounted for: Clara had killed four of them, we had one prisoner, four had passed our hidey-hole and five were off to lay paws on Salamander. Then again, Aarhuis hadn't been too exact in the total of toadies loitering around. There might be more.

Bring them on. I had my spade and FN.

'Where has Clara gotten to?' worried the Doctor, expressing concern in every fibre of his lanky body. 'She ought to be back here by now. Oh, I hope she hasn't gone off hunting Sontarans.'

Even I, headstrong and aggressive to a fault, blanched at hunting toadies in the _Seraphim_. Unknown territory, narrow corridors, no cover, an enemy with high-tech weapons better than our own and who outnumbered us; not the happy hunting ground.

'She wouldn't do that, would she, Doctor?'

'Well – well, she might, John. The Rutan race memories are hard to over-ride. I believe she reacted rather aggressively when that hologram of the Sontaran appeared?'

'Kind of. Er – yes, actually. As a matter of fact I took my life in my hands to reassure her that it was only an image.'

He stood by Tad, who crouched awkwardly at the telescope.

'Could you not tap your toes so? It is very distracting,' asked the Pole, proving this by being surprised when the door irised open to reveal Aarhuis.

'Fast work!' I commented.

'Came via the crawlways,' he explained. 'The Sontarans can't, not with a prisoner. They have to pass along this corridor to get to the axial tunnel, - but they might go clockwise and miss this section.'

Seeing a lack of understanding, he sketched the corridor layout in mid-air. The Sontarans were a level above us, but couldn't get to the all-important axial tunnel on that level – the suppressive field generated by that magic wand had sealed the entry doors shut. No, they needed to come down one of the ladderways that allowed manual access to this level from the one above, then move along the circular corridor and get to the axial tunnel on our level.

The Doctor checked his pocket-watch and Aarhuis looked between us all, dragging the magic electronic wand from beneath his overalls and returning it to the Time Lord.

'How long will this take? Power is still off on the bridge, we'll have life-support issues in half an hour and we're too near a gravity well to be comfortable.'

'Watch!' said the Doctor. He pressed the stud and all lighting around us died instantly. 'Another press,' he declared in the darkness, and the lights came back on instantly. Aarhuis looked impressed. 'All we have to do is wait a little longer and the Sontarans will be off the _Seraphim_. However, we do need to intercept the party with Salamander. He is, after all, the reason we risked our lives in the first place.'

Time was a-wasting. Giving Aarhuis a stern warning to remain in the stockroom, the three of us scuttled along to a set of big curved doors on the inner side of the corridor. "TUNNEL ACCESS" read the big green sign above them. This must be what those previous Sontarans were heading for when they went blundering past us before. The Doctor slammed his palm against the external control panel, darted inside across a floor (that would become a bulkhead if you were actually moving down the tunnel), found the control panel for the other matching pair of doors opposite us and gave it a right going-over with his sonic screwdriver. Sparks flew, the plastic of the panel bubbled and burst and within seconds an angry pounding could be heard on the other side, followed by basso voices swearing in Sontaran.

'Timely!' said Tad, in a low voice. Backing away, the Doctor put a finger to his lips. He tiptoed in comic style across the bulkhead/floor, leaning close to my ear when he got to the corridor again.

'They've got very good hearing. Be very quiet!'

There were no more ladderways for the Sontarans to use; they had to come to this pair of access doors to reach the tunnel and their escape route back to the cargo bays, though of course we didn't know which way they'd arrive – clockwise or anti-clockwise.

Tad and I went off in opposite directions, to get a little warning at least. In fact I heard them before they heard me, a ghastly blubbering noise being drowned out by loud curses in Sontaran, scuffling and shuffling. The inner curve of the corridor hid both of us from each other, so this aural warning was fortunate for me. I inched forward verrry slowly, peering around the curve of the plastic-clad walls, leading with my left eye.

At least five of the toad-men, one with his back to me, swearing at his fellow officers. Behind him, two Sontarans had been dragging a big, green, glowing globular object in a net. Clara minus disguise. So they _had_ caught her, with their special anti-Rutan helmet lenses.

Behind that pair was another, frog-marching a flaccid figure in a black frock coat and check trousers – Salamander, the reason we were here.

'Get moving again!' snapped the leading Sontaran.

'It's heavy!' snapped one of the pair dragging the net. One of the net-draggers, keeping hold of it's grip on the webbing, produced a long, telescoping metal pole and jabbed at Clara, who shrieked and blubbered and jolted, sparks sizzling from her skin. No wonder they kept her in a net, and remained at a distance from her – she'd have fried them like eggs given half a chance, the way they were treating her.

I slowly backed away, tiptoing backwards.

Sontarans and Rutans were implacable foes. Why hadn't they killed her on the spot? She was dangerous, and hard to move, too, from what I could see and hear. No surprise we'd beaten them to the access doors.

'Gar! Why not just kill it and have done! We've still got the human double,' complained a Sontaran. Perhaps "Gar" was a Sontaran name, or another of their curses.

'I told you, this is the infected one. We can bargain - ' and distance plus the corridor curve stopped me hearing any more. I went backwards at speed, turning and windmilling my arms to the waiting Doctor and Tad.

'_Five at least_,' I mouthed. '_With Clara_,' and I mimed a big ball.

The Doctor mouthed a mild swear word, then shrugged and thought rapidly, his eyes flicking left to right. Plan B, I thought – even if afterwards he said it was Plan F. He moved us backwards, away from the doors. We'd have the advantage of surprise, so I didn't know why he wanted us away from the access point. He brought our heads together, the better to listen covertly.

'Tad – you'll have one shot before the lights go out. John, do _not_ use that rifle of yours – it will send ricochets everywhere and might very well kill us all.'

Which would be bad. Coming all this way and enduring all this hazard, only to off yourself – big no-no.

Our impromptu ambush began when the lead Sontaran cleared the corner by the doors and encountered Tad, who had squeezed himself up against the corridor's inner wall, arm extended, like a duellist. Perhaps Toady got a little complacent, having gotten to the doors without any interception. At any rate, Tad's purloined rheon pistol made a nasty, piercing buzz and toady's chest lit up like a minor sun, before he collapsed in a smokey heap. The Doctor swept his sonic screwdriver over the pair of Sontaran's dragging Clara. I stood behind him, yet even so the combined infra- and ultra-sonic attack made my vision swim, my teeth ache and my nose bleed. Both toad-men fell as if pole-axed, clutching their helmets.

My job began as the lights went out.

'Rapid fire!' snarled one of the Sontarans still upright.

'Shoot! Shoot, why don't you!' shouted another.

I jumped forward, easily able to spot Clara thanks to her native luminosity, grabbed the net that trapped her and heaved backwards, dancing over the corpse of our first victim. Clara weighed a surprising amount, and it took whole seconds to get her to safety.

'John! John!' came a bizarre, distorted voice from her green blobby self. There were scorch marks on her skin where the Sontaran cattle prod had been used. Thinking dark thoughts, I pulled out my boot knife and began to slice the webbing away.

'I'm trying not to cut you,' I warned her, not able to be careful in the poor light.

With a scratch, a hiss and the whiff of sulphur, the Doctor struck a match. Caught in a flickering orange glare and the wild shadows created, two Sontarans were approaching, having re-slung their useless weapons. A third hung back, clutching the lifeless-looking Salamander.

'Stop right there and exchange your hostage!' boomed the Doctor, sounding like he held all the cards.

'Exchange? For who?' asked the nearest Sontaran, still edging closer. If he carried on edging I'd see how effective that armour was at stopping FN rifle rounds, Doctor's warning or not.

'One of your fellow officers is our captive. Release Salamander to us and we'll release our prisoner.'

My attack on the webbing finally paid off; it slid in tatters off Clara, who abruptly glowed a brighter green, in a menacing pulse. Little black patches showed up against her skin where the electric prod had rested, easily a dozen.

The two Sontarans stopped approaching. Wise. We had our portable electric killer free, and they had no weapons effective at a distance.

'Gar!' spat the Sontaran. Ah, it was a curse, then. 'If he's careless enough to get caught, that's his problem. We're leaving, and if you try to stop us, we kill Salamander.'

He produced a Sontaran knife, a dagger with lots of holes in the tetrahedral blade that nevertheless looked as if it could do the business.

The Doctor's match guttered and died. In the interval it took him to strike another one, the two Sontarans had backed up to the access doors and were ready to open them. Pressing, then hitting the control panel didn't work, no matter how hard they thumped it.

'You! You did this!' snapped one of them.

'No, it was the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus,' I called back, just out of spite. The first speaker actually seemed to pause and think about this for a moment before his smarter and quicker colleague spoke up.

'You killed the bridge equipment,' accused the other. 'There is no meteor strike. We are not in danger.'

'Yes you are!' said the Doctor, with peculiar intensity. 'If you enter that tunnel you will both die!'

We got a couple of "Gar!"s for that, and the toad-men began to wedge open the doors by brute force, helped by their daggers.

'I implore you – do not open those doors! They are booby-trapped! You will be killed!' shouted the Doctor. 'We can still exchange hostages! It's not too late - '

Both Sontarans made rude finger gestures and backed into the doors, one of them beckoning the last one forward, before both of them shrieked briefly and were cut off in mid-shriek. The meaty sound of falling objects just inside the doorway came like a full stop. The three of us moved forward, and I could see into the tunnel, where the severed body parts of the Sontarans lay in a welter of gore. Inside the doorway on each side, at six inch separations, the bright blue blob of a sapphire filament bond could be seen. All my idea. Cheese-wire writ a thousand times more powerful.

'I did try to stop them,' said the Doctor, sounding sincerely upset.

That left our last lone Sontaran, who backed away from us, holding a dagger to the throat of Salamander. He had his dagger, I had my spade.

Whoops! Bit of a Mexican standoff, what?

The Doctor still felt that negotiations might still be possible. Honestly, hope can't spring more than eternally, can it? because if it can this was it at work.

'Look, your comrades are either dead or incapacitated. At this moment your Valt is preparing to depart and you'll be stranded. Time is of the essence! We don't seek to harm you, just to get our – to get our hostage back.'

This slow advance and retreat was accompanied by the flaring of matches as one died and another was lit, but the momentary falter in the Doctor's voice came not because of variations in lighting, but because we'd seen Aarhuis, barefoot, come sneaking up from behind to take the Sontaran in the rear.

'Just imagine,' continued the Doctor, speaking loudly. 'Anything that distracts you, anything at all, anything that might take you by surprise, anything that might take you by SURPRISE - '

Aarhuis finally got the hint, closed the distance and kicked the Sontaran in the behind. The Sontaran whirled around to meet this new threat, which put his probic vent within whacking distance of yours truly.

'I think three blows is a little excessive, John,' was the Doctor's response. With a silent scowl I thought that half a dozen would be about right, having planted a foot squarely on toady's helmet. 'Right! I'm off – Aarhuis, will you show me the quickest way to the bridge?' He popped the magic button on his electronic wand and the dead zone further down the corridor came back to life again.

Off they went, Aarhuis literally showing a clean pair of heels. Brave chap, those plastic floors were chilly.

Well, that left John and Tad in charge of the Sontaran remnants, and Salamander.

Salamander. The reason all this combination of farce and tragedy had taken place. He'd been propped up against the corridor wall, stunned into a stupor by drugs whilst in the medical suite. Looking at him up close, he really did resemble the Doctor's second incarnation. Or is it a regeneration? Mostly, anyway – the white hair was a major difference.

The Sontaran that Tad had shot lay concertinaed on the floor, a big black hole the size of a football in his chest. Vile gloppy internal organs were spilling out of the hole, along with vile gloppy Sontaran blood.

'Hole in one,' said Tad, looking between the dead alien and the rheon pistol. It was impossible to tell if he was joking or merely recounting events.

I flipped the helmets off the two Sontarans the Doctor had laid low. Clara, still in her native form, began to take an interest.

'Are they dead?' she asked, in her robotic falsetto.

I kicked both of them in the head, and they twitched. They did have bleeding from the ears, the poor dears. Spotting a short metal stick fallen next to one, I picked it up, and found that it telescoped out to a yard long. Clara hissed.

Hmm. Which end caused the high-amperage zap dance? I poked the nearest toad-man with one end.

Nothing.

Quick spin of stick, try again.

Result! A big burst of sparks flew from the Sontaran's armour, and he practically did a horizontal jitterbug from one side of the corridor to the other.

'The Doctor would object to that, you know,' remarked Tad. I gave him a pretty cold look, and he shrugged. 'Me, I'm not bothered.'

My conscience got stirred, anyway, and we used the Doctor's sapphire string to bind the captives.

'Are you alright?' I asked Clara. Not that I could tell, not being an expert on Rutan physiology, but she'd been pretty quiet.

'No, not well,' she burbled. 'Too much shocks.'

'The medical suite, perhaps?' suggested Tad.

There were others nearer at hand who might know better. I stalked back to the first Sontaran prisoner we'd taken, and found that he'd indeed regained consciousness, which was lucky for me and unfortunate in the extreme for him. Taking care to shut the door, in case the Doctor came back and objected to a little rigourous interrogation, I stood in front of the toad-man.

'What damage will a Rutan suffer, if any, when they get attacked with one of these?' I snapped, waving the cattle-prod.

He sneered, which is an expression Sontaran faces are custom-made for.

'Sentimental human fool! As if I will divulge information to you!'

'You might want to consider my first point of logic.'

He wagged his tongue around (something Sontarans are prone to) and frowned.

'What point of logic?'

'This,' I replied, and gave him a good jolt with the jumpy-stick. He threshed and gurgled incautiously enough to have the sapphire wire bite into his clothing and the skin beneath. Dark blood began to soak his boots and gauntlets.

'You'll look great with no hands or feet,' I nonchalantly announced. 'And you might also want to consider my second point of logic.' I twirled the spade, before making a mock strike at his head.

'Very well!' he barked, cringing. 'Very well, very well. If "persuaded" often enough, a Rutan will suffer progressive degradation of their holistic electrical field. Invariably fatal if not treated quickly enough.'

Next question would have been "What is the treatment?", but he pre-empted me.

'Such a Rutan would need immersion in an electrical field in the terawatt range to recover.'

Without warning, a titanic shudder ran through the floor. I wondered if the _Seraphim_ hadn't been hit by a genuine meteor strike, but there were no more warnings about hull breaches. Our first Sontaran prisoner slumped down even further against the wall, muttering quietly to himself.

Outside, Tad had gathered together a couple of rheon pistols and a rheon carbine from the dead and injured. The original one he used on the dead Sontaran was now secured on a lanyard, hanging round his neck. Having seen what the weapon did, he didn't want any accidental discharges.

Carla, whilst I was absent, had managed to regain her disguise as "Annette", apart from not being able to get a correct skin tone and also minus her clothes, which she'd been forced to discard when captured. Black burn marks still disfigured her skin, and she seemed paler and less greenly luminous than before.

One of Nick's sayings came and hit me on the back of the head: "green-skinned alien". Here I was looking at one, and a naked one at that.

'Here,' I said, offering my now creased and sweaty dress jacket, which was just big enough to cover her modesty.

'Thank you big John,' she trilled in her strange voice. 'Carla not well.' She sagged a little against me. 'This body not comfortable.'

I caught Tad's eye. He shook his head, then held up his hands.

'I will say nothing about this to Lieutenant Munroe.'

Good, because I found Carla more disturbing in her human disguise than as a giant green blob. Where would we obtain a terawatt electrical field? I'd heard of kilowatts and megawatts so presumably terawatts were the next magnitude upwards. A power station's output.

Thankfully, the Doctor appeared soon after, even if he did bring up short at the sight of a green-skinned Clara-Annette. Our accomplice Aarhuis was trailing the Doctor, and a small man with a tonsure, wearing a blue coverall with silver piping, followed Aarhuis.

'Not a good sign,' muttered the Doctor to himself, laying a hand on Carla's forehead.

'The Sontaran cattle-prod,' I explained. 'Our prisoner said it will break down her holistic energies, unless we get her to a terawatt electrical field.'

'Oh – this is Captain Fontenbloem. He came to thank you personally.' The small tonsured man in the blue suit saluted us all.

I extended the traditional hand, only for Fontenbloem to give me a hug and kiss on both cheeks. Very Continental. Well, his name sounded Continental - Dutch or Belgian. Tad got a similar treatment. Carla gave a limp handshake.

'I can't thank you enough – we'd all be dead if it weren't for you four. And if we weren't dead, we'd still be mentally enslaved to the Sontarans – those - ' and he gave a description even longer and more colourful than Aarhuis' original version. Still, it was nice to hear that some old twentieth century words weren't extinct.

'You ought to thank Aarhuis, too,' added Tad. 'Quick with both feet and wits.'

Fontenbloem pointed at the weapons Tad had collected.

'Would you let us have those? I think from now on we're going to need weapons for self-defence. The designers back on Philandros will need to examine and copy those things.' He heaved a heavy sigh. 'One of the things our ancestors wanted to avoid.'

Quite a step for him to take, inviting the serpent into the garden. More of an anti-serpent, when you stop to think about it. Then again, serpents hunt toads. Metaphor man, that's me.

Not only that, the seventeen human crew were down to fifteen, since the Sontarans had killed the two medical orderlies in the medical suite when they collected Salamander. No reason, they just strode in and shot the two men. Fontenbloem gritted his teeth when telling this nasty little coda.

At around this point, the Doctor was beginning to wrinkle his brow in concern. He might have given voice to whatever worried him, had the floorplates of the corridor not begun to vibrate gently.

'Warming-up for departure,' explained Aarhuis to Tad and I. 'Can't hang around with that Sontaran destroyer nearby.'

Captain Fontenbloem checked what looked like a wrist-computer.

'I'm afraid we have to head back to Philandros, Doctor Smith. We have a hull breach, and that Sontaran ship smashed one of the cargo bay doors apart when it left. Plus, our life-support isn't all it ought to be, after having a time-out.' He saw the Doctor about to apologise and waved a hand in dismissal. 'Don't bother apologising, I'd rather have half the ship blown apart than be intact and enslaved. Can I drop you anywhere on our flight-path?'

Slowly, the Doctor shook his head.

'No. No, thank you. We need to get down to the nearest planet very quickly. Could you give me co-ordinates for the nearest settled world?'

Fontenbloem printed off a strip from his wrist-computer and handed it over to the Doctor.

'I also intend to take Salamander.' That was a statement, not a request. Fontenbloem shrugged and nodded. He printed off a list of drugs the imposter had been dosed up with, for reference.

'Watch him when he wakes up. He screams non-stop.'

'You can keep the toad-men prisoners,' I blithely stated. 'And give them a few pokes from this if they get frisky,' handing over the telescopic cattle-prod.

Between Tad and I, we half-walked Clara and half-carried Salamander into the TARDIS, being seen off by the Captain and Aarhuis. Neither showed the slightest surprise at the big blue police box, so they must have seen it at the Doctor's previous rescue attempt.

I sat Clara down on the regency chair, where she drooped limply.

'Not well,' she said, surprisingly clearly.

'We're on our way to get you a terawatt rejuvenator,' I told her, looking at the Doctor. He was busy adjusting levers and dials on the central console, before tripping a switch and setting the central time rotor moving.

'We're not going home?' asked Tad. The time rotor wheezed to a stop. Short trip.

'No. That would take too long. Here we are, on Amalthea. John, get Clara outside quickly.'

Our green alien nearly fell off the chair when I shook her, so it was a fireman's hoist and double-time outside the TARDIS doors.


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three: One Evening On Amalthea

I came to a dead stop after stepping outside.

The Doctor and his regular companions might get used to abrupt transitions like this, but I had trouble adjusting. After the stale, boxy, artificially-lit interior of the _Seraphim_, this was paradise – wide rolling grasslands, a dusky purple twilight, uncountable bright stars overhead. A nearly-familiar smell of hay or grass hung in the air, and chittering insects flew about. If the sky overhead hadn't blazed with far too many stars, then this might be Earth. I got a few deep lungfuls of proper air and checked for the Doctor. When were we going to get Clara to a terawatt generating whatnot of the forty-second century?

Behind me, Tad and the Doctor marched Salamander out of the TARDIS, the imposter's head wobbling weakly, showing that he was no longer comatose.

'Don't worry, she'll recover eventually, John. We're standing in the electrical field of a planet, after all. Terawatt rejuvenation guaranteed!'

One of those things you have to take on trust. After half an hour Clara was able to undrape herself from me and prop herself upright. The Doctor politely went and obtained a set of dungarees and a denim shirt for her, allowing me to take back my jacket. He also brought a lantern and matches, then sent Tad and I looking for dry wood. We had quite a walk, only able to see our companions thanks to the lantern.

'Does this seem strange to you?' I asked him. 'Ferreting for wood at the far end of the galaxy, in the company of a green alien woman and a madman, after travelling in a starship?'

He shrugged.

'I am taking things as they come. That way, I do not have to anticipate trouble. Look, bushes.'

Using my K-Bar, we chopped off dead wood and picked up enough dried leaves and twigs to make up an armful each.

'I think the Sontarans bring out the worst in me,' I confided on the way back. 'I felt like dancing on the heads of those two the Doctor stunned. Good job we had to leave in a hurry, he might not have liked the condition that other one got left in.'

'You'll work it out,' Tad told me.

Would I? Work out what? We arrived back at the lantern before my tongue ran away with me, asking questions about the exact meaning of what Tad alluded to.

'Jolly good work!' chortled the Doctor, sounding like an overgrown cub scout. 'Plenty there for a fire.'

Within a minute the five of us were seated around a large, bright fire. The wood popped and crackled a lot, giving off the smell of violets.

Five of us?

Yes, Salamander was awake, sitting up and looking at the fire, shuddering in sudden spasms. Later on, the Doctor said he'd used his little laser-mirror mind-bender to prevent an outbreak of the screaming ab-dabs.

'I thought you said five was a bad number for a crew?' I asked.

The Doctor looked at Salamander before replying.

'He's staying here. Aren't you?'

The imposter nodded, still gazing at the fire. No screaming.

'A little late to make recompense for his crimes, but not too late. You can lead a blameless life here in Magellania.'

Salamander writhed his lips and tongue without speaking, contorting his face. It seemed as though he were simply mocking the Doctor before he began to speak. What he was really doing, as I realised later, was trying to use muscles that had been unused for – well, a long time.

'I have served a most frightful sentence in the worst prison imaginable. My own mind.' His accent was rich and Latin, the words slow and stumbling. Holding his hands out to the flames, he carried on. 'For centuries, or millenia, or perhaps no time at all, I was forced to contemplate my own folly and greed and arrogance. I foresaw no respite or rescue. There was no sense or stimulation beyond what I experienced in my mind. Ten thousand times I lived my life over, seeing every turn, every thought, every footstep where I trod the path of evil. I forsook God and God punished me.'

The reflected flames danced in his eyes, and he still held out his hands to the fire. Sudden tears streamed down his face.

'I have been reprieved.' He looked over at the Doctor. 'You, who have most cause to hate me, have risked all to rescue me.'

Hey, me and Tad, too! Would this character also insist on huggy-kissy thank-yous? I'd rather not, ta very much. British reserve and all that. Tad could be the Continental huggy-kissy lightning conductor.

'Feel better,' said Clara. She was managing to speak in a passable human voice now, which she hadn't been able to copy even when in good health. The grammar and vocabulary would come later, perhaps.

Under the twilight, a series of small moons came up over the horizon like a flight of balloons: one, two, three, four, five. Clara leaned against me and watched – except how could she watch when her eyes were only simulated?

'Pretty,' she murmured.

'Moons,' I explained, probably making the Doctor choke silently in laughter at my so-called scientific explanation. 'Natural satellites orbiting this world. Er – do you have to lean against me?'

'Yes. Weak,' she replied. I instantly felt like a complete swine. 'Thank you for rescue,' she added.

'Oh! Oh. The Doctor helped too,' I blustered, my cheeks no doubt a fetching shade of vermillion. In the firelight I caught Tad grinning at my embarassment. Bugger! He was the one who tried a pass at her, not me –

"Her" – that would explain it, then, John, you effing purblind moron. Clara was now a "her" to me, even if she adopted the form of a giant green blob. Especially then. A giant green alien blob only a few weeks old: say, for want of a better word, a child. And what did John do when he caught people abusing children and women? Why, as everyone at Aylesbury knew by now, he flew into a rage and attacked the culprit with cattle-prods, or threatened to beat them to death with a spade.

Tad got a long, informed look at that, the perceptive Polish rascal. He realised what I realised and nodded. Away to one side, the Doctor probably caught my look as well.

'Clara needs the electrical field here to recuperate, and Salamander needed a return to a terrestrial environment, too. I'll get a gazebo from the TARDIS and they can stay out here tonight. John, will you help carry things?'

That was an excuse to get me away from the others. Once in the spaceship, he set about talking to me whilst pottering about in corridors off in the rear of the console room, calling for me to follow, opening and shutting doors and cupboards that in turn led to other cupboards and wardrobes.

'You seem uneasy about Clara, John. Why's that? Oh, where are those skewers?'

'Er – well – I'm not really sure. I – that is, I know she's an alien, a big green blob. That I can handle, easily enough. It's just - '

'Found them! All I need is the mallet. Go on, go on. You find her attractive in her human fascia and can't reconcile that with her native form?' and he passed me a brown canvas bag full of long metal skewers.

'Yes, I suppose so. And I cannot understand why she likes me, the "fat human". Why can't she find a nice Rutan boy to like?'

That led to guffaw of genuine amusement.

'Sorry, sorry! Ah – oh, no, that's a woodwork mallet. Let's see – a tack hammer, a ballpane hammer – got it.'

He passed me back a big rubber mallet, then drew back from the cupboard.

'Rutans are hermaphrodites, John. There are no "boy" Rutans for Clara to like.'

Colour me confused. If Rutan were hermaphrodites, why did Clara dress in human female? And feel positive affection for a human male? Damn it, there was another of Nick Munroe's little witticisms coming home to roost. He must have second sight, the wretch.

We continued down the corridor, coming to another vast cupboard containing a positive midden of sporting equipment. The gazebo was buried under a collection of cricketing gear, enabling the Doctor to lecture me whilst getting the big tent-like structure out.

'Clara is a total stranger to Rutan culture, John. Her life so far began in the TARDIS, in the company of myself – and I look very human – and her parent, Winifred, who has lived amongst humans so long that she practically _is_ one. Remember Laurens Van Der Post.'

On the back foot, I tried a little distracting humour.

'He died so the Royal Mail might live?'

'No! Oh, wait, your discipline is politics, isn't it? Laurens did work on imprinting.'

'He died so William Caxton might live?'

I got the warning look for that one. Okay, naughty, but I was utterly at sea here.

'_Im_printing, not printing! The first object that a newly-born sees is taken to be it's parent. Whether that first object is a block of wood, a "Billy Blob" to re-use your repellant slang, or - '

'A human being.'

With a giant heave, the Doctor pulled one leg of the gazebo free. I joined him in the application of brute force to the other three legs.

'Clara thinks she's human?'

The Doctor shrugged.

'This is virgin territory for me, John. I don't know how she thinks and feels. Careful of those wickets. Pull harder. There!' and we got the gazebo freed. He turned to look at me, with that effortlessly penetrating gaze. 'So treat her with respect, John. If she has formed a connection to you, then you have a responsibility to her as well.'

Hey, this wasn't on!

'Marie will kill me if she thinks I'm romancing another woman. Another alien. An alien looking like a woman. A green-skinned woman. Damn it!'

The Doctor swapped the canvas bag and mallet for the gazebo and led me outwards along the corridors, collecting blankets on the way.

'How is your fiance?'

'How - ? We aren't engaged!'

Not that we weren't interested in an engagement. Marie's dad, the frosty, prickly, aloof and disdainful Mssr. Valdupont, didn't want his daughter engaged to a British "adventurer".

'Whoops! Suffer the children - forget I spoke!' and he laughed it off.

Before we left the TARDIS, the Doctor stopped to give me a long hard look.

'Okay,' I squeaked. 'No more cracks about "Billy Blob".'

'Guilty conscience, eh? No. What I meant to say is quite simple: you don't have to be human to be humane.'

"You don't have to be human to be humane." That damn phrase would come back to haunt me. It gave me pause for thought right there and then. The Doctor wasn't human, yet he embodied some of our best human qualities. General Finch was a fully-blown human being, who had still conspired to eliminate the human population of Earth.

'Here we are,' the Doctor greeted our stay-behinds, who seemed to be dozing. The dusky twilight had deepened slightly, which was as dark as it got, what with the starlight and moonlight. Tad helped to put the gazebo up very efficiently, the Doctor dropped the drapes over three sides, keeping that facing the fire open.

'Cosy,' murmured Clara, curled up on the ground. Her skin tone remained green, although she seemed much better than earlier. I draped a blanket over her to keep the chill off. By his own preference, Salamander remained outside the gazebo, unwilling to remain in a confined space (which reminded him too much of the _Seraphim_) and needing to remain in the presence of sensory stimulation (unlike the space-time vortex).

'There was definitely something wrong with those Sontarans,' the Doctor mused.

'They were alive?' drily ventured Tad. He got a tut in reply.

'No! No, I mean they didn't behave they way they should. Sontarans are ruthless and brutal, but they aren't casual sadists. Why send seven crewmen into vacuum without suits, or shoot two medical orderlies dead, when the logical, simpler course is merely to blow up the whole crew and ship?'

Oh yes, so much more rational and logical. Bloody Sontarans!

'Do you need me as an algorithm or paradigm?' I asked. An idea occurred to me immediately. 'Hey – those Sontarans didn't care about the prisoner we had, did they? That kind of behaviour gets you drummed out of the service. Human service, anyway.'

More musing from the Doctor.

'I can't see why they'd be here in the Lesser Magellanic Cloud, either. They don't have any bases near, nor do the Rutans have a presence here that needs countering.'

'Slave labour?' asked Tad, a good guess on his part, I thought.

'Unlikely. The human cultures in Magellania are spread fairly thinly. The time and resources it would take to enslave them would be more efficiently spent elsewhere.'

He snapped his fingers and said "Eureka!".

'Terrulian! That must be it! They're here to mine for it.'

The name had come up in the briefing his computer cube gave us, without any more detailed explanation. Terrulian, "as any exographer knew", was a power-ore unknown on Earth. In fact it was pretty rare stuff anywhere, and since the Sontarans had built their entire energy technology around it, they travelled to where the terrulian was and mined it _in situ_. Having solved the puzzle, the Doctor then discarded his solution.

'Except that Magellania has no terullian deposits on any of its worlds. One reason the settlers came here.' He sighed. 'It's a pity we couldn't have had a couple of hours to chat with our prisoners.'

'Why didn't you bring several with us?' asked Tad. 'I know John was generous in giving them to the _Seraphim_ crew, but we could have kept one or two for ourselves.'

'Hostages? Hardly a sensible choice, Kapitan Komorowski,' interrupted Salamander. He had sharp hearing, that man. 'The Sontarans would have wanted their people back. Bringest thou not the serpent into thine own garden, young man.'

'Quite right!' agreed the Doctor. Then he hedged a little. 'Well – normally, yes, with normal Sontarans. Besides that, it would have taken a considerable effort to get information out of any Sontaran prisoner. Especially a Sontaran officer. There's as great a difference between the Sontaran officer corps and their common soldiery as between the Ice Warrior aristocrats and their rank and file.'

Tad frowned at me from across the gazebo. "_Ice Warriors?"_ he mouthed, to my entirely uninformed shrug.

'The first one we caught was quite ready to spill the beans,' I said, genuinely off-hand. The Doctor's head whipped round at me and his next question was harsh and direct.

'John! Did you torture him!' and sparks practically shot from his eyes. Taken by surprise, I quailed in front of this display of temper. What did I say?

'No!' said in a tone of injured innocence. 'One jab with the moo-moo motivator and he was positively eager to tell all about Rutans and electric shocks. I did mention my friend Mister Spade in passing.'

Once more the Time Lord stroked his cheek with a finger.

'Hmm. Sorry, I was a bit hasty there. Good grief, none of this makes sense!'

'Spiffing,' I said. 'It's been a long hard day besting the beast-men, and I shall sleep on the problem.'

'Shh,' yawned Clara. 'Tired.'

'It's perfectly safe out here,' whispered the Doctor. 'And she needs to remain outside the TARDIS to recover, for at least the near future.'

'I'll stay,' I whispered back, nodding at Clara, now silent and asleep. Tad and the Doctor went back into the space-time craft, but Salamander remained outside the gazebo – meditating, he said. The air was balmy, the fire smelt pleasant and after the compressed nastiness of the recent battle on _Seraphim_, I fell asleep propped against one of the gazebo legs.

The smell of porrige awoke me next morning. Clara, warned not to wake me suddenly, waved a bowl of it under my nose, then handed it to me. The sun had risen, allowing us to see properly. Outside the gazebo, the ashy remains of our fire sent a perfumed smoke into the sky.

'Thanks. Wow – with sugar, too! I daren't eat it with anything less than a teaspoon of salt in it back at Aylesbury. Lieutenant Munroe insists only Sassenach jessies eat it with sugar.' She watched with fascination as I spooned the gruel down.

Yes, I was gentleman enough to ask if she wanted any, only for her to throw her head around wildly. It took a few seconds before I realised she was trying to shake her head in a negative.

After that I needed to stretch out the kinks in my back. Salamander was also exercising, doing squats and bends and apparently enjoying the exercise. He must have missed it whilst being lost in space-time.

Our gracious host the Doctor came out to take the morning air, impeccably clad in his velvet jacket and frilly shirt. He sniffed the air, exhaled mightily and nodded.

'Amalthea. I've been here only briefly on a couple of occasions. Mono-Gee, matrilineal and matriarchal, of course.' He tossed me the white computer cube, underhand. 'You need to acquire more background information. I, meanwhile, will be out trying to communicate with the nearest settlers and arrange a contact.'

Suddenly rising from his squatting position, Salamander came over to join us.

'May I have the privilege of joining you?' he asked the Doctor. 'Contact with other cultures broadens the mind.'

He was allowed along, carrying a metal-bound plastic case full of gadgets and gizmos to help the Doctor call up his friends on Amalthea. Salamander seemed pleased at this. In fact he seemed positively chirpy.

Me being me, nasty, suspicious and hard-bitten, I tugged the Doctor aside.

'Watch it with him! He's far too friendly and smarmy. Once a rotter, always a rotter. I don't trust him.'

'I do,' retorted the Doctor, ending our discussion. 'Whilst I'm gone, look after Clara. And don't touch anything!'

The sun had already risen, as proven by the dawn. However, the small red ball didn't get any more yellow when it climbed higher in the skies. Instead, another sun joined it, creeping slowly over the horizon, a sun of particular intensity, yellow-white and too bright to even look near. As it rose, it blanked out the bright twinkle of other stars still visible in the light of the first, dull, sun.

My initial impression, of a similarity to Earth, began to fade. The grasses around us were grassy, green and leafy as all grasses are. Trees now visible in the distance proved to have immensely tall trunks and big umbrella crowns, with unidentified objects dangling from the highest branches. Another series of moons, three in total, one with a ring around it, ascended above the horizon not long after the big brighter sun came up. Tides on this planet must be bloody complicated!

Clara settled down in the gazebo and went to sleep. Tad and I mooched around a bit, looking at endless rolling grasslands in the direction the Doctor had taken.

'I wonder, would it be possible to venture over there?' asked Tad, pointing in the opposite direction.

'Why not!' I agreed, fed up with looking at billiard table green on all sides. 'Clara? Tad and I are off to explore.' I put my blanket over her. It would be wasted otherwise.

'Mmmmph,' she replied. Apparently all dozy females, regardless of species, reply to outside interruption like that.

I hacked an arrow into the turf outside the gazebo, pointing in the direction Tad and I would be taking, and we set off.

'I imagined an alien world would be so different,' offered Tad, setting the pace 'This one seems very like Earth.'

'Well. Think about it. The people here are from Earth. They need a world with similar gravity, atmosphere and environment, or they wouldn't survive. "Mono-Gee" must mean "one gravity", too.'

All my own thoughts and mental work, thank you. Mind you, if future-John could have heard me, he'd have kicked me in the teeth and told me to check the cube out on "mono-gee".

'The Doctor said this world was "matrilineal and matriarchal". What does that mean?'

I had to think quickly about that. Politics did cover it, but not applicably since the fifth century BC.

'A society run by, and governed by, women. Not only that, succession to property is for female members of a family alone. Male members are chattels with no legal standing.'

Tad made a face, more emotional exercise for him than usual.

Remembering the cube, I called up Sontarans again, and asked for information on Sontaran strategy. Perhaps the Doctor had missed a trick with them. If they weren't after the Rutans, or terrulian, or slaves, perhaps they had another motive? Quite what that might be escaped me.

Strategy, the cube informed me, equated to a three-dimensional game of Go. It projected a boxlike lattice, where the intersections gradually sprouted white or black counters. To capture a counter the opposing player needed to surround it at the six cardinal points; once a counter was taken it vanished from play and that empty intersection counted as a point towards the capturing player's final score. Very simple, basic rules, which nevertheless created a very complex game. I'd played the human, two-dimensional version occasionally at university and that was hard enough – a 3D one beggared imagination.

The cube continued with it's little lecture. The white counters could be considered Sontaran, the black ones Rutan – and the lattice abruptly sprouted thousands of white and black counters, white definitely outnumbering black. Each intersection could be considered a planetary system. Of course, in reality, the lattice which stood in for our galaxy had no boundaries – and the edges promptly shot off in all directions, gradually fading away – and the distribution of planetary systems was not equal or uniform – and the neat, precise repetition of the lattice became a nightmare maze of skewed lines and gaps.

Tad, marching alongside me and currently impaled by the expanded lattice hologram, asked a relevant question.

'Why are the Sontarans here on Amalthea?'

Insufficient data, replied our cubic mentor, making the lattice disappear.

'What is it about the Sontarans and torture?' I asked, remembering that the Doctor had been very unimpressed at me getting info out of the captive toady. I needed to rephrase the question a couple of times before the cube understood me, and then it explained, and how.

Sontarans were highly resistant to torture. The explanation for this wasn't pleasant: they routinely underwent torture themselves, to toughen up and allow them to become able to shrug it off if applied by others. It took a lot to make a Sontaran give up information of any sort, and for "a lot" read "extensive mutilatory torture including limb removal, organ removal and extensive destruction of brain tissue". Their own people probably didn't go quite so far.

The cube sat silent after that.

'I am suddenly not surprised that the Doctor was cross with you,' offered Tad.

No wonder he was surprised when the truth came out. Instead of reducing our prisoner to a collection of butcher's remains, all it took was an electric shock.

Our path had taken us a couple of miles south of the TARDIS, only to see endless vistas of green billowing away on all sides, broken up by those huge trees. Tad and I decided to split up and move off at forty-five degrees from our original route, travelling away for twenty minutes and then returning here if nothing new presented itself. Once again I hacked a marker in the turf for reference.

Walking away, I had peace and quiet to consider things in. Typically, my thoughts drifted back to Clara. Alien, green, and fond of me. How the hell do I end up in situations like this! "She" ought to be pining for the company of other green blobs, and instead here she was, getting friendly with a "fat human". Back home on Planet Earth, I didn't exactly attract the women; Marie and I had originally hated each other. Janine, my ex, had been at Leeds University with me for three years.

Then again, that phrase of the Doctor's came home again: you don't have to be human to be humane. He had got on fantastically with Winifred the Human Rutan, the implication being that he didn't judge a book by it's cover, and that Captain Walmsley shouldn't, either.

Life was so much simpler before UNIT.

It seemed simple out here, too. Nothing except more grasslands, with the twinkle of light far away showing water reflecting the suns. I headed back for the rendezvous, except Tad met me on my side of the turf marker.

'Life and movement! Come and see!'

Double-timing back, and heading over Tad's beaten path, I witnessed a patchwork array of fields come into view, beginning a couple of miles away and heading off to the horizon. The individual fields were big, easily five miles square. In one of the nearer expanses of harrowed mud a tractor towed giant rollers across the field. To be visible at this distance it must be a big vehicle.

'Shall we say hello?' I asked. 'We might save the Doctor time, if he's off trying to hail someone on the other side of the planet.'

Tad calculated the distance.

'Four and a half, maybe five kilometres. Mostly downhill. Reachable in less than an hour.'

Crunch came forty minutes later, when the tractor stopped tractoring. It was a big beast, easily the size of a double-decker bus, in a snazzy blue-and-white dazzle pattern. From moving up and down the field, it suddenly stopped, then slowly turned in our direction. The driver's cab, semi-opaque plastic, appeared to contain three people. The big vehicle slowly moved towards us.

'Show them you're friendly,' I warned Tad. He waved. I waved.

The tractor abruptly detached itself from the massive rollers towed behind, with a series of sounds like pistol shots. Instead of heading towards the two human emissaries waving with obvious benign intent, it twirled around in the field and drove away, picking up speed.

'Must be dinner time,' I quipped. 'That, or your flies are undone.'

Tad scanned the air about us for insects before giving up.

'My father is a farmer,' he said. 'I used to drive his tractors when I was a youngster. If I drove that carelessly he would have taken a belt to my behind.'

The route taken by the giant tractor did cross the main field, cutting across the harrows and roller-tracks in a frantic squiggle.

More mystery! Giving up on exploration, we headed back to the TARDIS, discussing what might make farmers run in panic at the sight of two unarmed people.

Well, not obviously armed. I still had my .45 in it's bum holster, and the K-Bar knife in it's boot pocket. Tad had only the Sontaran pistol dangling around his neck, half-hidden by his jacket. Why run away? A tractor that large could have outrun us and squashed us flat, and without anti-tank guns we couldn't have stopped it.

Clara was still asleep when we got back to the gazebo, curled up under the blankets.

'Recuperating,' I told Tad, as if I knew. Still no sign of the Doctor or Salamander. Not only that, I felt rather peckish. The TARDIS was locked shut, so we'd not get any food that way.

Tad whistled, pointing back the way we'd returned to the campsite. An object travelling over the grasslands was headed towards us at considerable speed. When it got closer I recognised a hovercraft, of sorts. A big, bullet-shaped hull atop big plastic skirts, with directional steering vanes at the rear. It made good time and drew up only thirty yards from us, killing the engines and settling to the ground with a loud hissing, sending up a gust of ashes from our dead fire. Unlike the tractor, this vehicle had camouflage colouration, brown and green and grey patterns that broke up it's outline.

'Clara, time to wake up, we have visitors,' I said, giving her a shake. She was awake and aware instantly, standing behind me to keep a wary eye on the visitors.

"REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE," boomed a giant amplified voice from the hovercraft.

'I had no plans to travel,' muttered Tad.

A door opened in the side of the hull and a telescoping ladder unfolded itself down to ground level. Two of the occupants clambered down. They wore silver-grey jumpsuits and one had a slung weapon over a shoulder. They came over to us in determined fashion, the sort of walk that policemen use, except these were policewomen. Close-cropped hair, humourless expressions, all sorts of electronic gadgets hanging off their silver-grey harness webbing.

They stopped well short of us, looking at each other in alarm. The first one went to unsling her gun, and I made my fastest draw ever from the bum holster.

'Uh-uh! No gunplay, please.'

"THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPON" came the unhelpful voice from the hovercraft. They could threaten all they liked, I hadn't seen any weapons mounted on the vehicle.

'Certainly not!' I replied to the two policewomen in front of me. 'It might get dirty. Also, it's expensive.' I holstered it again. 'Let's talk without any guns, please.' At the back of my mind was the thought or fear that the Doctor would suddenly turn up whilst I had these women at gunpoint, and boy would he not be happy!

'Who are you?' asked policewoman number one. When she moved the webbing parted, allowing me to see her nametag: HEADON. 'And stop staring at my chest!'

'Put your nametag on your collar, then,' I retorted. 'Officer Headon.'

'Oh,' she replied, slightly surprised. 'You haven't said - '

'We are here with Doctor John Smith,' began Tad. He made a big wave to the rear. 'This is TARDIS.'

That would be "the" TARDIS, Tad.

'We're familiar with the TARDIS,' said the second policewoman, nametag MILLINGTON. 'Where is the Doctor?'

'Off looking for someone to communicate with,' I said. 'You can wait here until he returns.'

'How generous,' said Headon, sarcastically. 'In the meantime, perhaps you can explain why you men are here?'

'We're waiting for the Doctor to return, like I said.'

Millington caught sight of Clara and did a double-take.

'Who's that! And - why has she got green skin? Sister, are you alright?'

Something here wasn't clicking. Headon and Millington were instantly hostile for no good reason. What had Tad and I done? - walked on the grass. Major criminal activity here on Amalthea?

'This is Clara. She's a Rutan,' I warily informed the police duo, wondering if they knew what a Rutan was or whether I'd need to fill them in.

No need to worry about ignorance, they looked startled and unhappy.

'A Rutan! What the hell are you playing at, bringing one of those here!' barked Headon. 'Has the Grey Empire done a deal with them?'

'No. She's under our protection,' I warned them, seeing Millington reach for a pouch on her webbing. 'And if you're thinking of harming her, make sure you can reach that pocket before I close the distance.'

Headon muttered something under her breath. Tad was nearer and caught it better than I did.

'They don't like our uniforms, Captain Walmsley.'

Nor us. Thankfully I began to understand what matriarchal and matrilineal meant when applied to police work.

'Officers, may I suggest that you retire to your hovercraft to keep an eye on us? Whilst we remain here. We can't escape, the TARDIS is locked and your machine can run us down in seconds. No conflict, no hostilities. The Doctor will be back, probably soon.'

Hopefully soon!

'We really mean no harm,' added Tad.

'Friends,' said Clara, speaking perfectly.

They still weren't convinced.

'Tad – er, that is, Kapitan Komorowski, chuck me your pistol.'

He took off the lanyard and threw the rheon pistol to me. I picked up the dirty porrige bowl from breakfast and threw it in the air, hitting it squarely first time with the alien weapon. It burst in a cloud of china fragments. I threw the pistol back to Tad.

'If we were up to mischief, you'd already be dead.'

Headon squinted at the weapon, dangling from it's lanyard.

'That's a Sontaran weapon.'

Tad grinned wolfishly.

'It was Sontaran. Now it's human.'

'The Sontarans don't trade weaponry with humans,' commented Millington, getting close to tripping over the truth.

'These Sontarans didn't object, being either unconscious or dead,' I finished. Damn female police, able to chinwag like the civilian version.

They betook themselves off with bad grace, sitting on the steps of their hovercraft and glaring at us. Headon unslung what looked like a double-barrelled shotgun and rested it across her knees. This stand-off lasted for at least ten minutes, long and uncomfortable minutes.

'Doubtless some hideous laser weapon able to kill us all and take the gazebo with it, too,' I muttered.

'Completely wrong!' boomed the Doctor's voice, sounding very pleased with himself. He came round the TARDIS and strode commandingly over the grass, stopping and looking in annoyance at the ground. 'Whose been using my second-best Delft for target practice?'

'We thought "mono-gee" meant one gravity,' I confessed after the eight of us sat down to drink tea.

'And we asked the cube about Sontaran military strategy,' added Tad, not quite meeting the Doctor's bemused stare.

'I apologise for being so hostile,' apologised Officer Headon over a cup of tea. She did seem genuinely sorry, after actually seeing the Doctor in the flesh. Both police greeted him with big friendly smiles and put the gun away. His annoyance at having his crockery shot to bits was only eclipsed by his dismay that Tad and I didn't quiz the cube about Amalthea.

'Apology gratefully accepted,' I said, trying to bow whilst sitting down.

'If Mono-Gee means Mono-Gender, then there are no men on Amalthea?' asked Tad. Millington took up the explanation.

Amalthea was mono-gender, as was Philandros. Amalthea's population of two and a half million had a literal handful of males present, in the diplomatic compound of Hollandia, where they kept very much to themselves. A reciprocal situation existed on Philandros.

Nor was that all. Crime of any sort was rare on Amalthea, and violent crime almost unheard of. The police force of Law Officers numbered a few hundred part-timers, with a permanent core of several dozen, and dealt as much with literal matters of law as of policing. Military forces didn't exist, so the presence of two unescorted men in uniform came as a hideous surprise to the crew of that giant tractor. We were suspected of being Sontaran "progs" – conditioned slaves – or soldiers from the Grey Empire.

Officer Millington pointed at her weapon.

'That's the planet's strategic deterrent, Captain Walmsley. We have two dozen shotguns in total. Originally made to deal with beserk cattle.'

Naturally a whole host of bad jokes came to mind, which I hastily stamped upon. The Doctor took the whole situation in with perfect equanimity, so I'd better do the same.

'Please, call me John. And that po-faced rascal over there answers to "Tadeusz", if you can manage the subtle tongue-twisting involved. First names, please - UNIT and the British Army are long gone.'

Maybe not. Both officers looked up when they heard "UNIT", but I didn't get a chance to quiz them further.

'Two and a half million people with only a few dozen police?' queried Tad. 'Remarkable.'

When considered objectively, it certainly was. Imagine the populations of Manchester and Birmingham with only a village police station in each city, for comparison.

Headon spoke up, proudly.

'That's what the lesbian elective lifestyle has wrought here. Of course, the Grey Empire can quote crime figures like that, but it takes an enormous army of police to manage it.'

'Quite besides it's stifling of free speech, free assembly, free worship and freedom of expression,' interrupted the Doctor.

'A dictatorship, then,' commented Salamander. 'Well, their time will come. I cannot blame you for fleeing their clutches.'

'Wait a minute – you mean those crew on the _Seraphim_ were all ben – ahem! That they were all homosexuals?' I asked, finally understanding that comment from Aarhuis about his "partner", and the touchy-feely huggy stuff, too. Silent nods from the Amaltheans and the Doctor.

Okay, not only the abrupt transition from spaceship to planet took a bit of getting used to, so did this. Homosexuality is frowned upon most severely in the armed forces, and jokes about "benders" are rife. It's not illegal any more in Britain, but to see a whole planet composed of lesbians, or a spaceship full of homos –

The Doctor laughed quietly.

'Another prejudice getting a jolt, John?'

'You're not kidding,' I muttered, wondering what would happen next. 'How can they find other men attractive? Men are all boney and lumpy and hairy. Women, on the other hand, are nicely-padded and curvy and smooth-skinned.'

The Amalthean police officers were nodding and grinning at my comments.

The Doctor stood up and drained his cup, before pointing alternately at Tad and myself.

'Whatever these people's sexual orientation, they have chosen it themselves, in free decisions taken without coercion. It doesn't detract from their pacific, democratic, liberal and progressive cultures, which stand in stark contrast to the Grey Empire. Both of you need to adjust to that.'

'Bravo! Well said,' said Headon. Millington clapped.

'How come you didn't shrink from the Doctor?' I complained.

'_He's_ not human,' replied the third police officer, the hovercraft driver, Dunbavin.

'Don't worry, John,' said Clara, slipping her arm behind me. 'I will still be your girlfriend.'

The gazebo was being taken down, which meant strong muscles were needed to pull up the skewers Tad had knocked deep into the soil. Of course, this meant the Doctor could lecture me again.

'More properly, she meant "friend-who-is-female", John. Her vocabulary isn't large or sophisticated enough yet to have got that across unambiguously. Make sure you wipe the mud off before putting them back in the bag.'

He passed me a cotton rag. I rolled my eyes, wiped the skewer and put it back in the bag.

'She took me by surprise, that's all.'

A few more skewers left the soil and the gazebo sagged.

'A good job you weren't eating anything. My recall of the Heimlich manouevre is a tad rusty.'

'Hey,' I retorted, a bit more emphatically. 'I am flattered that Clara likes a big, grim-looking "fat human". It was just a surprise, coming on top of ten minutes that challenged just about every sexual assumption I've ever made.' Time for a counter-attack. 'What took you so long, anyway. Tad and I were off for hours before you got back.'

With a push and rustle of linen, the gazebo collapsed on it's side.

'What I feared, has happened: the Sontarans have landed on Amalthea. I was in communication with Hollandia about our rescue of Salamander, when they revealed that a Sontaran encampment has set up in the northern hemisphere.'

This news struck me stationary. The toadies were here? If the most that this whole planet could muster in defence was twelve shotguns, they were doomed already. And that explained how they knew about "progs".

'That's bad, right? Nothing but a handful of weapons straight out of the nineteenth century to keep the toadies at bay. Poor sods.'

Following a shout, Tad and Salamander came out to help wrestle the gazebo inside the TARDIS. Once we had stowed all the gear, the Doctor indicated the golf bag full of weapons.

'That collection, gentlemen, constitutes the largest arsenal this planet has ever seen.'

Great. That little arsenal would equip four men, or women.

'From your language and behaviour, I judge we are not leaving Amalthea yet?' asked Tad.

The Time Lord nodded.

'I still don't know what the Sontarans are doing here, nor why they are behaving so strangely. Firstly, I intend to find out, and secondly, I intend to force them to leave.'

'Does that involve killing lots of them?' I asked, brightening.

'No!' darted the Doctor back, hotly. 'Not by strength, by guile.'

'The Special Boat Service motto,' deadpanned Tad, to a roll of the eyes from the Doctor.

Another recollection struck me, from back aboard the _Seraphim_.

'Oh – I remember. Those Sontarans, one of them mentioned "bargaining" with Clara as the bargain. Is that any use to you?'

Once again he looked astonished. Sontarans were not big on bargaining. If they wanted something, they took it. You had to be bigger and stronger than them to stop them taking

Officer Headon rapped politely on the TARDIS doors, waiting to be asked inside. She was visibly impressed and uncomfortable with the spaceship interior, whilst trying not to show it.

'Doctor. The Archate at Hollandia have requested that we escort you and your travelling companions there for a formal interview.'

To me this sounded rather forbidding, but the Doctor nodded with pursed lips and liked the sound of it.

'Good idea. It'll save time if we all travel in the TARDIS, Officer Headon. Will Officer Millington be joining us?'

'Oh. Yes,' replied Headon, walking back to the doors and waving Millington inside. Neither of them looked very happy at travelling via a space-time machine.

'I'll aim for the Grand Piazza,' said the Doctor to thin air. 'Near the Archate's Session House.' He flicked switches and the doors closed, the time rotor started up and that characteristically wheezy sound began.

'Is it alright?' gasped Officer Headon in sudden fear, staring at the time rotor and clutching at her colleague's shoulder reflexively. Painfully, too, from Millington's expression.

Trying to oil the waters a little, I spread my arms. Either the two women would annoy the Doctor by criticising the "old Girl" or they'd wet themselves with worry.

'Welcome to the TARDIS, officers. "Time And Relative Dimension In Space-time",' I extolled, managing to get it wrong.

' "Space",' corrected Tad, blandly, watching the two worried women officers with folded arms and the merest hint of a smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

'Space, and time, indeed. The Doctor's machine can travel equally well through both. That noise you heard – and which you now hear again – informs the crew that the TARDIS is materialing or dematerialising. Deliberately chosen to make even the least attentive crew-member pay attention.'

The Doctor slapped my shoulder in passing on his way to open the doors.

'Nonsense, John, but entertaining nonsense.'

We all departed the TARDIS, emerging into mingled light from the two suns. An open flagged area, with inlaid mosaics, surrounded us for at least an acre. On three sides were buildings, ranging from worn, battered-looking plastic bubbles to large, elegant stone constructions reminiscent of Greece. Travellers across the Grand Piazza carried on about their business, with only a few bothering to stop and stare. One or two waved to the Doctor.

This, then, was Hollandia. Small towers, tall metal chimneys, aerials and pylons rose into the sky behind the buildings I could see, evidence of more buildings beyond.

Two blonde women, chattering and not paying much attention to either the TARDIS or it's passengers, passed quite closely. Suddenly one caught my eye and stopped dead in her tracks. Her companion carried on two more steps before stopping too, and turning to check out the distraction.

Remaining silent, I gave them a cheery wave and a big grin.

They both screamed aloud and raced away, waving arms and shouting panicked warnings.

Bloody women!

'Can you not cause panic like that?' asked Headon, acidly.

'Panic? I only smiled at them!' This all had the air of a bad farce about it.

'Your face is not built for smiling, John,' said Tad, shaking his head. He could talk, Mister Stoney-face.

'Big scarey man!' smiled Clara, not helping one iota.

The two policewomen led the way across the flags and up the steps of an impressive classical building that wouldn't have been out of place in Rome. Passing women stopped to stare or point at us.

Once inside, the curiosity of passers-by increased. They nodded or smiled at the Doctor, glanced at Salamander, but gave Tad and I long, cool stares.

'Really. Don't they know what a great big softy I am?' I complained. Salamander caught the words and whispered them to the Doctor, who laughed briefly.

'It's what's inside that counts, eh? Well, you're learning your lesson, John.'

Our procession was brought to a halt in front of an entrance with enormous wood-panelled doors, covered with a livery of sylised roses. Two policewomen, wearing blue-grey jumpsuits, stopped us and argued with Headon and Millington. In between arguing, they let occasional women into the hall.

'No weapons in the atrium,' explained Headon. I handed over my .45 in it's holster, my K-Bar, Tad passed over the rheon pistol – handled as if it would bite by the doorguards – and the guards frisked us for good measure.

'Are you in possession of any hidden weapons?' asked a doorguard. I'm afraid my tongue developed a mind of it's own and spoke without my brain intervening.

'Yes. Sarcasm.'

Before they could get annoyed, the Doctor indicated Clara.

'Our companion is a friendly, recuperating Rutan. She can, if provoked, project enough electrical energy to stun or kill.'

Ooh they didn't like that. Clara looked female, which went down well with them, but she was a Rutan, which didn't go down well.

'Is my presence within really required?' asked Salamander. 'I will be happy to remain with Clara to offer her succour,' the Latino playboy smoothy.

The offer was accepted, and they took up temporary residence on a bench opposite the big atrium entrance doorway. Officers Headon and Millington surrendered their shotgun and came in with us.

After the exterior, I expected an imitation of the House of Commons, or a temple interior. Instead a big semi-circular dais stood in a hall clad in dark blue drapes, facing rows of chairs that arced inwards in sharp curves from the rear of the hall. The east side of the hall had lights inlaid in the floor, blinking from the door where we stood, and leading away to the front of the dais – which, I saw, had two levels. Not all the seats in the hall were occupied, which still meant a good couple of hundred plus women turned to watch.

Our police escort stood off to one side, allowing us to mount the first tier of the dais. Five seats faced into the hall; no allowance made for the absence of Clara - nor Salamander. I suspected he wasn't the problem here, not being young, armed or in uniform.

For a sketchy plastic chair, the seat was comfortable, or it was until a restraining band slipped out of the left arm and around my forearm. With a loud "hey!" I danced upwards in surprise and alarm, tugging the chair, which was welded or bolted to the floor and reluctant to move. The restraint tore and one chair leg snapped half-way up the leg. A surge of sound went up from the audience, a combination of amusement and worry.

The Doctor intervened before I could make a bigger fool of myself, tapping his restraint, which obediently retracted into the chair. He came over to me and tapped my restraint, which fell limply from my arm, leaving a red welt.

'It's a body-monitoring band, John. So they can tell if you're lying or not.'

Oh. Ah. Not a concealed hand-cuff, then. Of course I had to use one of the spare chairs after that, sitting down in a huff.

'Could have said so, the plonkers.'

"COULD HAVE SAID SO THE PLONKERS" boomed an amplified version of my voice, echoing around the hall.

'And the chair has built-in microphones,' added the Doctor, sardonically. I put my face in my hands. This trip so far constituted equal parts horror and farce. This – this was the farcial part. Finally the amused tittering in the audience died out.

On the higher dais above and behind our lower version, the sound of footsteps could be heard. A lot of them, judging by the scuffling and tapping. Shortly after that, a loud clunking sound came from the entrance doors, and one of the higher-dais people tapped a gavel.

'The Archate is now sitting,' she said. 'The door is locked. None may now enter or leave until this sitting has finished. Although neither the full Panel or Assembly have been convened, we are still quorate. The sitting will now begin.'

For the record, another person recited what date it was, and what month, and what time it was, and what number the sitting was. Dull stuff. My attention wandered, and I cast an eye over the audience. All women, of course. Bar some odd clothes, which I presumed were _haute couture_ of the forty-second century, they looked exactly like a collection of women from planet Earth, which was pretty dull as well.

The Archate began to list an agenda, which abruptly got me interested. First up was Us.

'Item the first: The recently-arrived off-world strangers. Item the second: our uninvited guests in the Northern hemisphere. Item the third: altered trans-shipments from Rainbow, Philandros and Andromache. Item four: balance of payment deficit for each of the cantons over the past financial quarter.'

They appeared to grade items in order of boring.

The Archate's prime windbag then began on the "off-world strangers". Tad and I were the prime suspects, being – as I mentioned – male, young, uniformed and armed. The Doctor and Salamander got an honourable mention, the Doctor especially. Clara didn't even register.

There began a short question and answer session, one of the Archate asking questions in a stilted and formal manner, addressing either Tad or myself with formal titles.

'Did either of you come here to Amalthea with hostile intent?'

No, from both of us.

'Duly noted. Did you carry arms onto the surface of Amalthea?'

Tad replied yes; I hemmed and hawed, trying to get across that the K-Bar was a tool as much as a weapon, witness the bushes I'd cut and the directional arrows dug in the turf –

'Your abuse of the ecology is duly noted,' replied the interrogator. 'Your Kay-Bar is granted dual status as a weapon and a tool.'

The Doctor caught my eye before my tongue took over with a cutting reply, and he frowned and shook his head. I literally bit my tongue; avoid being smart at the expense of your freedom, Johnny boy.

'Did you, with malice aforethought, seek to inculcate a sense of distress amongst the population?'

Were we deliberately scarey. Typical politicoe, use ten words when one will do!

No, from Tad. No, from me, which caused lights to flash over the lower dais. Caught lying – except I wasn't aware of which population I'd deliberately scared.

Officer Headon put her arm up.

'Captain Walmsley drew his weapon when confronted with an armed Law Officer. He did not use the weapon, voluntarily replaced it and did not make reference to it again.'

'Duly noted,' said the Archate speaker, sounding put out that the inaccuracy had been resolved.

Officer Headon also left out the bit about me firing that rheon pistol, and threatening her partner. That was big of her. Her testimony seemed pretty fair, in fact, bless her.

In our favour, mentioned by another speaker on the dais, was an omission: we hadn't actually killed or injured anyone. We had managed to scare dozens of women, however, during our transit across the Piazza, added a third jobsworth.

So, what was to be done with us? Ought we to be punished for transgressing on Amalthea's legal procedures? Did ignorance excuse us? Would a character reference from other parties help? If punishment were to be meted out, who would apply it? Would the punishment be actual, notional or corporal?

Tad lowered his head and shook it in annoyance. I looked across at him and gave a bitter grin. Clearly our lesbian liberal politicians were as capable of making an absolute pigs-ear of things as were the twentieth century equivalent. More boring normality!

'If I may make a representation?' asked the Doctor, which was less a question than a statement. Him being him, he got his representation. He strode up and down the platform, extolling the virtues of common humanity, the bond that human beings possessed, that Tad and I were young and foolish ("_thank you so much_," mouthed Tad, not daring to speak out loud), how they ought to deliver justice, not vengeance.

To give the lanky white-haired charmer his due, he got us a conditional acquittal; Officer Headon would escort me, whilst Officer Millington would escort Tad. Our behaviour needed to be exemplary, or punisment would ensue.

'Half a loaf,' I muttered, which, of course, instantly became "HALF A LOAF" booming around the hall. Nobody laughed. Either humour had changed or nobody understood quaint aphorisms any longer.

The next item was the Sontarans. Yes, you would be excused not realising who the Archate meant by "uninvited guests". Whereas Tad and I were treated with the utmost suspicion, the Sontarans were treated almost as a joke. They were mining, apparently, yet there was no terrulian anywhere on Amalthea for them to extract, as the Archate speakers pointed out to sardonic laughter. The last raid they mounted on a garth yielded only a handful of hostages, thanks to the successful warning system established. There was an approving murmur at that, yet not as loud as the earlier laughter.

'Can I ask a question?' I blurted, not fully comprehending what "pacifist" meant when applied to a whole society.

The Archate speakers whispered amongt themselves.

'Any information imparted from or to you, Captain Jonathan Richard Walmsley, will have no legal standing and is for advisement only,' prolixed one of them. 'If you are satisfied with speaking on that basis, you may proceed.'

I could feel the Doctor's eyes boring into my temple, plainly curious but not worried enough to stop me.

'Why don't you try to defend yourselves? Instead of running away from the Sontarans, stand up to them.'

Not being able to see the people above us meant no non-verbal feedback.

'We must not take up arms against the Sontarans,' replied once Archate speaker. From the corner of my eye I saw the Doctor's position subtley change; from being an interested observer, he abruptly became actively involved. As a change it was slight, but most significant. He listened more intently than ever.

'As a pacifist society, weapons are taboo,' carried on another speaker. 'We cannot take up arms against the Sontarans.'

'There are no sources of arms on this planet. We cannot take up arms against the Sontarans,' concluded another.

The instant they finished speaking, the Doctor began.

'You cannot take up arms against the Sontarans,' he repeated, adding a little upward inflection at the end of the sentence to make it a question.

"YOU CANNOT TAKE UP ARMS AGAINST THE SONTARANS" declared his amplified voice

'We cannot take up arms against the Sontarans,' agreed a chorus of voices.

'You must not take up arms against the Sontarans,' carried on the Doctor, placing emphasis on the second word, again with that booming copy.

'We must not take up arms against the Sontarans,' agreed that chorus from the Archate, plus a good few of the Assembly.

'And you will not take up arms against the Sontarans,' concluded the Doctor, to be greeted by a repetition from the Archate when his own voice's amplified echoes died down.

He sat down again, whilst I nearly choked with rage, wondering what the hell he was playing at. Two and a half million people at the mercy of the toadish killers, and he was about to let them all go hang!

Thanks to this blind rage, I missed the boring latter portions of the agenda, and it was a good job our interrogation had finished, since any replies I gave would have been at least fifty per cent Anglo-Saxon invective. Tad, cooler of temper than I, merely looked at our travelling companion with a calculating expression and a steely gaze that would have unmanned a lesser being. The Doctor merely leaned back, looking interested in the jabber session underway, tapping his fingers.

On the other side of the Doctor's chair, Tad suddenly blinked, looking as if he'd been poked with a pin. He began to stare at the Doctor's fingers, then spared me a glance.

'_Morse code_,' he mouthed silently.

Of course it was. My Morse was very rusty, and what I heard was "R-E-M-I-N S-I-E-N-T". Tad got it in full, then arched his back, rubbed both hands over his ears, and then over his mouth.

Oh - REMAIN SILENT.

Okay, Doctor, whatever strange game you're playing is go for the moment –

Simmering in silence until getting out into the wide open spaces of the Grand Piazza, where the Doctor deemed it safe to talk, was a tribulation for me.

'You are looking red in the face, John. Are you all right?' asked Clara.

Casting a look around, the Doctor decided we could talk. Since both Millington and Headon were along as official witnesses and escorts, I wondered why he'd waited to get out into the open air. People passed by our little group, yet not close enough to overhear us.

'No!' I hissed, seething. 'These colonists are human beings, Doctor, my own species, and they need defending from the toad-men as you very well know!'

'Of course - which is exactly what I intend to do, John,' he replied, mildly. This took the wind out of my sails completely, which was no doubt the intention. I was left with my mouth hanging open, all my stored temper abruptly gone.

'Then why all that agreeing with the Archate about not defending themselves?' asked Tad. 'You encourage the Amaltheans to be victims.'

Shooing us over to a collection of stone chairs arranged around stone tables, the Doctor asked all to sit. The reason for that was obvious in a short while.

'I am not impressed with your analysis of my behaviour, gentlemen! Do you really think I would leave these colonists at the mercy of that Sontaran rabble?'

'It sounded like it,' I grumbled.

'It was your naïve question that sparked my very, very close attention, John. "Why don't you defend yourselves?" Well, that response from the Archate came back far too pat and rehearsed for my liking. When I repeated back those phrases about not taking up weapons and so forth, I was testing the Archate's antiphonal responses.'

Blank looks all round.

'It was sheer luck that I had access to that amplifier system. My repetitions must have sounded very similar to the commands that have been conditioned into the Archate, and to which they responded in thought and word as they have been forced to.'

Oho. Now, there was a theory.

'But – you're saying – that the entire Archate are "progs"!' gasped Headon. Millington merely looked dumbstruck. Having hurled this wildcat amongst the pigeons, the Doctor nodded.

'And some of that Assembly audience, too,' added Tad for good measure.

'What is a "plonker"?' asked Clara. I felt my eyebrows rise. How had she heard my little faux pas, since she was outside whilst I was inside?

'Ah – I was able to hear what was being said, for the most part,' explained Salamander.

'Your theory would explain a few things, Doctor,' said Millington, finally finding her voice.

He nodded.

'I noticed neither of you leapt to defend the Archate after my supposition. Nor did the audience seem quite enamoured of news about the Sontarans, however self-satisfied the Archate are.'

Between the two officers, a sorry tale emerged of how the Amaltheans tried to cope with the Sontaran "incursion" the previous year. A detachment of the full-time police, armed with their shotguns, and hundreds of volunteer part-time police, armed with anything they could carry, had been taken by helicopters to the canton where the Sontarans had landed, and where the rumoured hostages were being held. The plan, such as it was, had been to surprise the Sontarans, overwhelm them, destroy their site and rescue the hostages.

It had been a massacre. The Sontarans killed nearly everyone, cutting them down with beam weapons. Headon and Millington were amongst some of the last to arrive in a malfunctioning helicopter, and got away with the few survivors.

'The Sontarans knew exactly where and when and how many would be attacking,' finished Headon. 'The survivors told us they were waiting, with trenches dug and pits for their weapons.' Only one hostage had been rescued, and even then she had already escaped from the Sontaran encampment and been found wandering dozens of kilometres distant.

'Quite insane after being held prisoner. Being kept in the Mercy House,' added Millington.

'How many Sontarans are there?' I asked, to shrugs. Nobody knew. Possibly a hundred, possibly several thousand. Archate-mandated policy was not to attack them, in order not to have the "hostages" harmed. The Doctor twitched when he heard the word "hostage" used.

'How many hostages have been taken?' he asked, pausing a little before that third word.

Once again, nobody knew, not exactly. Eight thousand – or that was the official figure given. Since total figures of people taken were no longer given out, that number must have increased. Ten thousand, at a guess, maybe even as many as fifteen thousand. No wonder that audience in the Session House didn't appreciate the filleted facts of abductions.

My eyes must have expressed surprise and shock and not a little disgust. Two and a half million people willing to let two thousand Sontarans exploit, degrade and murder them, without raising a finger to stop it!

'A pacifist society, John,' cautioned the Doctor, wagging a finger at me. 'Not a culture you can change overnight, not after generations of avoiding violence. Besides, they don't have any industrial plant capable of making contemporary weapons.'

Both police officers nodded.

'We don't have a high technical base,' added Headon. 'By deliberate intent, Amalthea is primarily an agricultural society. Advanced technology like hovercraft or helicopters we get by trading. With Andromache, mostly.'

Across from me, fidgeting uncomfortably on the warm stone seating, Tad stared at his shoes, wrapped up in his own thoughts.

'Those hostages you mentioned are nothing of the sort. You had suspected that already, I take it?' began the Doctor. He got silent nods from both policewomen.

'Over eight thousand gone and only one returned? Of course there are all sorts of rumours flying about,' added Headon.

The Doctor stroked a cheek with his forefinger.

'There really is no way to put this easily. Your fellow Amaltheans who were abducted are now dead, bar a few hundred of the most recent abductees. The Sontarans will be using them as expendable slave labour, to be literally worked to death.'

With these slaves, there was no need to retain any individuality or rationality. All they would be doing was manual work, not crewing an interstellar starship. No rest, no sleep, no food, no water, merely worked until they dropped dead.

'A combination of slave labour and extermination camp,' declared the Doctor, in a tone that brooked no argument, and that meant he was going to sort this squalid business out. 'Which I absolutely will not tolerate, not at all. Despite your Archate's dismissal of the whole affair.'

Tad paid closer attention after the "extermination camp", and I don't wonder. Most of his mother's elder relatives, being educated, had been sent to various Nazi camps; none returned. Our Tadeusz gave me a look, one that plainly said "I'm in". He didn't have the ferocious temper that I did, instead he brought a cool intellect to the situation and revealed his previous thoughts developed whilst squinting at the table. The Doctor out-IQ'd both of us put together, but we had a perspective he didn't – a military one.

'You were thinking why the Sontarans here on Amalthea behave so appallingly. Perhaps it might be more fruitful to wonder why Sontarans not on Amalthea behave in a different manner.'

That put our mentor on his mettle.

'Quite a fascinating inversion, Kapitan. Do you have any suggestions to go with your logic?'

'I do,' I interrupted. 'Formal military discipline. Esprit de corps. Elan, morale, tradition.'

All correct, too. You can't create and sustain a military force simply by brow-beating a collection of squaddies, be they human or Sontaran. They need more than self-preservation to make them more than a mob of killers with weapons.

'Implying that the Sontarans here are without, which is to say beyond, the sphere of normal Sontaran military forces. Hmm. I think you have something there, Kapitan.'

He steepled his fingers and placed them against his lips. In all probability the Doctor plotted out nearly everything of what followed afterwards in our plans and efforts in the next few seconds, before he spoke again.

'We need a Sontaran prisoner or two. Not only that, I'd really like to speak to that sole escapee from Sontaran captivity. Could it be arranged?' he asked officer Headon.

She called up the Mercy House on her walkie-talkie, and was told "No!" very promptly and unequivocally.

'Oh dear – I think I feel a relapse coming on,' sighed Salamander, passing the back of his hand over his brow in exaggerated style. He fell off his stone seat, contorting and thrashing, frothing at the mouth and gibbering, attracting attention from passers-by.

Mercy House might be staffed by jobsworths, but they were efficient jobsworths, and Salamander was on a stretcher, then in an ambulance, then off to the Mercy House within minutes. His febrile convulsions were interrupted for a split-second, when he ostentatiously winked at the Doctor.

All an act! Not bad. Real method stuff.

I still didn't trust him.

'Next move. John, I would like you and Tad to act as lighting conductors.'

Oh did he.

'Oh do you. That sounds unpleasant and prejudicial to me seeing my next birthday.'

He tutted sharply.

'Not literally! You need to attract the Archate's attention to keep them away from myself and Clara.'

Not un-naturally, our two police escorts were all ears.

'You two officers, if you wish to help end this alien occupation and enslavement, not to mention mass murder, would be well advised to play along.'

'I'll bite,' agreed Headon. 'What do we do?'

Being a lightning-conductor on Amalthea wasn't too bad. Thanks to the Doctor's extensive wardrobe I found civvy clothes that fit me, and Officer Headon took me to sample Hollandian nightlife. Firstly she stopped off at her barracks-like apartment complex, and changed into civilian clothes, retaining a silver band on her left arm. This indicated she was a Law Officer, except that she was off-duty. People could approach her, if it was important. Law Officers, literally, were there to deliver judgement on the law, being a combination of police officer and magistrate in one.

'You can call me Julie,' she informed me, as we caught a self-driving narrow-gauge electric train from outside her apartment. I was, inevitably, the only male on the train, and drew lots of stares. No longer so hostile, now that the uniform was neatly folded on a chair in the TARDIS.

'Julie. Nice name. Very twentieth century.'

'A name is a name. Just because this is the forty-second century doesn't mean we all have names like "Zarquon" or "Blargrilla".'

That made me laugh.

'Oh, so it does have a sense of humour,' she drily commented.

'Of course I do!' I replied, offended, trying not to fall over as the tram wheeled left. 'It goes with the temper, which I get from my mum.'

She seemed surprised at that, her eyebrows disturbing her short haircut.

'Honestly,' I carried on. 'My dad is as big as me, but he's as tough as a soft-boiled egg. My mum is very small and dainty, but if she lost her temper, my dad and I hid.' I indicated how tall my mum was – five two. That was feet, whilst these people of the future used that hideous metric system.

That made her laugh out loud, genuinely amused. The other passengers seemed to think that on off-duty Law Officer guffawing meant I was Okay, and ceased to pay quite as much attention.

'You're not trying to romance me with humour, are you?' she suddenly asked, recalling where and who she was. 'Because I am not going to "try it out" with a man from curiosity. I'm happy in my relationship.'

I felt flattered that my attempt at humour went down so well, and got a touch of the devil in me.

'You sure?' I asked, waggling my hips Elvis-style. 'I won't be around for ever,' then burst into laughter at her scandalised face. 'Only joking! Really, your face - '

That was me being the lightning-conductor, you see. Scandalised female faces on the tram turned away in horror. Some turned-to in horror and nosiness.

'You're happy in your relationship, and I'm happy in mine. Marie would intuitively know if I'd got it on with another woman in her absence.'

'Your wife?'

'Not yet. No, we're not engaged yet. There is the matter of her divorce. Left her a bit jaundiced about men.'

Not without reason. Her ex-husband, Henri, slept his way across Northern Europe whilst they were married. Besides slapping her about, threatening her with knives, scalding her on one occasion, and keeping her prisoner in the house for weeks at a time.

'How horrible! What a vile man!'

I shrugged.

'Our paths will cross one day. When they do, he will need the services of Europe's best dentists.'

The little self-driving train, which I termed a tram, drew up alongside a raised platform that formed one side of a street composed of bright, neon-fronted buildings. Looking closer I realised that the windows of these buildings were actually displays – not neon, more subtle and with constant gradual changes.

'We get off here,' announced Julie. She indicated the multitude of slowly-evolving displays. 'These are all hostelries, the kind of place Doctor Smith wanted you to be seen in.' We headed for the nearest, one with a giant pastel pink-and-white swirl on the window display.

'The Velvet Apple,' she announced, pointing to a stylised logo over the door. 'Please don't get into trouble in here. My career is on the line if you do.'

Perhaps my expression of angelic innocence didn't convince her.

The hostelry resembled a giant geodesic dome inside, with concealed purple lighting around the roof and at floor level. Quiet music came tinkling tunelessly out of concealed speakers, and a ten-level water feature in the corner splashed gently. The few women present were sat at plastic tables you could have bought from Marks and Spencers, and looked me over with interest.

'Tasteful,' was my comment. 'Nice and quiet.'

Julie ordered drinks from our table via the built-in speaker. A good way to avoid queuing at the bar.

'It is quiet. Most of our hostelries are. They can get rowdy on Market Day, once a quarter.'

A waitress in pink pant-suit delivered the glasses of Perry Crush, hung around staring at me for a second and left.

"Perry Crush" tasted like brandy-flavoured cider.

'Quite refreshing. See how I lift my little finger whilst drinking it?'

'Oh, pack it in! Don't swill it all down at once.'

Having a look around the floor space, most of the drinkers avoided my gaze, apart from two big, stocky women sat together, who stared back in a fashion I recognised from pubs and clubs – "Yeah what think you're tough do you?" While most women can talk the hind legs off a donkey, this pair looked able to wrench the animal's legs off with brute strength alone.

Oh deary me. Causing a ruck here was probably not what the Doctor wanted. One of the staring women went over to the bar, spoke to the bar staff and sat back down again, still staring.

'Julie,' I began, speaking sweetly. 'In the interests of not starting a fight, you might want to pay attention to those female dockers sitting ten tables over, whose body language expresses a violent dislike of all men named John.'

She turned and gave the women a stern glance, then an expression of amused malice stole over her face and she went over to speak softly to them, pointing back at me, then making karate moves and firing an invisible pistol. The female dockers gradually looked less aggressive and more alarmed. When Julie left them they finished their drinks and walked out, casting glances at me when they passed.

'Ooh, yes, look at those eyes,' whispered one. 'Plain evil!'

'Born killer,' agreed her friend.

Julie sat and sniggered. Further to the Doctor's wish about lightning conductors, she told the two women that I was an off-world assassin, specially contracted by the Archate to terminate any threat to them, able to kill with a single blow, expert with firearms, cold-blooded as a lizard.

'That's egging the pudding,' I warned her. 'My temper is my worst problem, I am a miserable shot with a pistol and, believe me, killing a person with your bare hands is far from easy.'

She eyed me cautiously at that.

'I can see you might well think our lifestyle is quiet. You'd probably enjoy being on Philandros. Half our population but ten times the police. They're always fighting, the dreadful macho showoffs.'

'The _Seraphim_ crew were all well-behaved.'

'They have learnt good manners through contact with other cultures.' Strong implication here being that the best lessons were taught by Amaltheans.

After a few more rounds of Perry Crush, other women began to sit nearby, waving or nodding to Julie, and once more looking curiously at big John, the Fat Human. Since I didn't turn into a colossal raving perv, or start fighting and swearing, they seemed to lose their fear and got chatting. I learnt a lot about Amalthea from them.

How did the planet's population thrive and survive without men? Partly due to the arrival of lesbians from other planets in Magellania, and also thanks to the wonders of imported sperm from the commercial donor companies. Male offspring were not common, thanks to genetic tinkering. Those that were born would be sent off to one of the foster institutions on Andromache or Rainbow, where they would gain status as a citizen of those worlds. (Much to my relief – I had visions of male babies being left outside to die of exposure). Females growing up on Amalthea, at Elective were able to choose where to live. Most stayed on Amalthea.

Principal industry – agriculture. Thanks to the long days and a summer season that lasted for nine months of the nominal twelve, growing food crops was easy, without needing to bother about fertilisers. There were no large native life-forms to attack crops, and none of the insects liked imported terrestrial plants like potato or wheat. End results were huge harvests accrued with minimal effort and no artificial intervention. Sounded like hippy heaven to me.

Hollandia constituted a planetary capital, for want of a better word. Those sad, battered plastic bubbles to be seen off the Grand Piazza dated back to the original refugee settlers ten generations ago. Nowadays, with mining plant and cutting mills, buildings could be made of the plentiful local stone. The planet's continents were divided into vast cantons, which had scatterings of small, self-sufficient communities called "garths". Each of these would have farms, a school, a recreation centre, a Mercy House, helicopter pads, stables, pens, sties, and so on.

Not everything here was idyllic. Different factions wanted either to slow down progress, not wanting to become an approximation of Earth, or to speed it up, the better to supplant Earth culture. And, tellingly, people were becoming wary of the Archate. Since that body only got elected tri-annually, and wasn't up for election for another year, Amalthea was stuck with the incumbent version

By the time Julie and I left, feeling rather mellow thanks to much Perry Crush, the crowd of women had been discussing and arguing about everything under their suns. Julie thanked me for being well-behaved before she left the tram, trusting me to return back to our quarters.

'I had to escort an Andromachean diplomat once. Yuck! Wanted to cruise strip clubs and pick-up bars. As if! Anyway, goodnight.'

Rather than being placed in the official diplomatic compound, we new arrivals had a dusty yet hale twin-level plastic pre-fab of our own, bedrooms on the upper level, lounge and kitchen on the lower. No going forth without escort for Tad and I was the rule. Everyone else was free to wander where they felt like.

Tad came in much later than I did, heading straight upstairs for his bedroom, while the Doctor and Clara didn't show up before I fell asleep on a well-padded plastic chair in the lounge area.

'Good time had by all, eh?' asked the Doctor, as I snapped awake. Clara, still clad in her green-skinned fascia, yawned.

'I am going to sleep in a minute,' she announced. 'Good night.'

'Hang on, Doctor, I did learn a couple of interesting things tonight. Philandros – their police force is ten times larger than that on Amalthea, and armed, too. Also, people are not happy with the Archate and how it's behaving. Not to the point of suggesting they impeach, yet.'

I got a thank you from the Doctor.

'Er – and Julie has also been playing me up as a cold-blooded killer brought in by the Archate. No doubt that gossip will be all over Hollandia by tomorrow.'

Clara stopped on the bottom step of the stairs to her bedroom.

' "Julie"? Who is Julie?'

'Officer Headon, without her official head on,' I joked, which seemed very funny, filtered via several pints of Perry Crush. Clara tossed her hair and went up to bed, followed by an amused look from the Doctor.

'Her language skills seem to have come on by leaps and bounds,' I commented.

'So has her jealousy gland,' drily remarked the Doctor. 'Just be careful, hmm?'

He left me flabbergasted on the chair. "Jealousy gland" – surely he was joking! Careful of whom? And why! Clara was an alien and I didn't remotely fancy Officer Headon. Really -

Luckily that Perry Crush helped me to fall asleep, instead of worrying, even if it was in the chair not in bed.

Cherish that sense of whimsy, I ought to have told me, because the farcial would be replaced by the tragic in short order.

In the small hours of the morning, which was actually still a dusky twilight, full night only happening rarely on this planet, I got woken abruptly by the phone. Not a phone, really, more a house radio system. Groping my way there and colliding noisily with several articles en route, I picked up the handset and pressed what seemed to be the "on" button.

'Hello. Salamander here,' said a rolling voice, enunciating very clearly. 'I need the Doctor, quickly.'

Within seconds the Doctor was speaking urgently to Salamander, looking increasingly serious in the light given by a desk lamp. When the caller ended his emergency message, the Time Lord turned to look at me with a frown, cradling one elbow and stroking his chin.

'We need to move quickly. Go and wake Clara and Tad, please.'

In two minutes flat a bleary-eyed Tad and bubbly Clara were in the lounge, looking at the Doctor for direction.

'John, you must stay here. You stand out too much. We'll be back in half an hour, and by then you'll need to have created a hiding-place in here for a single person.'

A what for a who?

The thirty minutes became forty. When the front door opened, the Doctor and Tad came in with a woman walking between them, followed by Clara, who looked extremely pleased with herself. Feeling conspiratorial, I leaned out of the door to check on passers-by. No-one near.

'You just sit down here,' asked the Doctor of the stranger. 'John – can you make Isobella a hot drink of some description?'

The kitchen here lacked food, but it did have a kettle and cups and glass jars full of loose leaves. Making informed guesses, I made a cup of proper sergeant-major's tea, the kind where the spoon can stand upright. Isobella, haggard and gaunt, drank it down in one great long swallow and asked for more.

Tad filled me in on the details, which he'd been given on the run. Salamander, his convincing pretence at mental breakdown putting him in the Mercy House, had been careful to get close to Isobella. The next ward room, in fact, with a connecting door, which enabled him to get in and chat to her when the staff were busy elsewhere. In the small hours his preternaturally acute hearing brought him awake at the sound of a person creeping into Isobella's room. When he boldly opened the connecting door, switched on the light and called loudly "What are you doing!", he found a member of the Archate standing by Isobella's bed, a spray-hypodermic in hand. This interloper then injected themselves, and promptly died on the spot. Salamander, realising how problematic this was, called us. The Doctor and friends arrived and Clara imitated another member of the Archate, stalking into the Mercy House to demand the removal of Isobella for safety reasons – the body of a dead fellow-Archate member lending urgency of unprecedented degree. Tad had helped to carry Isobella, also aided by Clara, who had altered fascia again to resemble Officer Headon the instant medical staff turned their backs. Salamander brought the Doctor up to speed on what Isobella told him, then retired to his own bed again.

What you might call a pretty pickle!

'I'm not mad,' said Isobella, casting a look between us all.

'I know,' replied the Doctor. 'But the Archate behaved as if you were. You can tell us all about the Sontarans, and I guarantee we'll believe you.'

Her tale was grim in the extreme. The "Toadies" had appeared in the middle of the night in early summer, amid horrendous explosions and flaring lights. A whole semi-circle of small, squat semi-circular flying craft landed around the outer edge of Sittangville garth, to disgorge Sontarans. Any woman who attempted to resist was killed on the spot, and the garth's entire population of children, shepherded into their small school for safety, were killed when one of the Sontaran craft blew it up. Isobella's voice cracked at that point; one of her daughters, Imogen, aged six, died in the school.

My mouth went dry at this, and Tad chewed his lip, visibly agitated. For a man with the habitual expression of the Sphinx, he must have been enduring torment. Probably re-living the torments of his never-met aunts and uncles in various Nazi death camps.

The surviving members of the garth, almost five hundred, were processed by their captors once aboard the big multi-copter; having a bright red light shone into their eyes, according to Isobella. Physiological conditioning, according to the Doctor. Isobella, rendered almost catatonic by the loss of her younger daughter, merely went along with everyone else, following them. She hadn't realised that the conditioning didn't work on her until the multi-copter started to empty on landing. Her friends from Sittangville were drooling, barely-conscious zombies, ordered to carry out manual labouring tasks in a large open-cast mine without stopping for anything, unless work stopped due to a problem. Isobella found opportunities to avoid work, find shelter, get food, drink water and survive. Unlike the other women from Sittangville, who died off gradually. Including her older daughter, whose body Isobella came across in a midden of corpses about to be set alight. Risking discovery and death, she'd dragged the body free and buried it in a rock cleft.

Nor was that all. When the handful of Sontaran guards at the mine got bored, they would order two slaves to fight to the death, often armed with crowbars or picks. The winner would be shot dead. Or a slave would be ordered to hold a lit stick of fused explosive and run, to see how far they got before being blown apart. One or two of the guards, rotated periodically, were known for testing their strength on the slaves by practicing lethal punches or blows. There weren't many guards present, about a dozen. No need for more, not with their pathetic work-force.

The poor woman broke down at this point and burst into tears, both for her dead daughters, and for failing to save them. Clara showed unexpected compassion, sitting next to Isobella and hugging her.

'Madam,' said Tad, pale-faced and looking ill. 'If we can stop this monstrous behaviour, we will. Or die trying.'

'A whole lot of Sontarans are going to die first,' I declared, flatly, cracking my knuckles. I tried to carry on but my throat didn't feel like working properly.

'Monstrous is correct,' mused the Doctor. 'Such deliberate sadism smacks of mental illness. I quite agree with Tadeusz, Isobella. If anything can be done to stop this, we will do it.'

To allow my throat a respite, I showed the Doctor my hiding-place. Two chest-of-drawers had been placed next to each other in the largest bedroom. They had a set of five drawers about two feet high, three feet deep and three feet wide, obviously not big enough for a person to hide in, even if curled up. Except I'd smashed through the end of each bottom drawer against the inner side of each cabinet, also breaking the cabinet wall. In effect this created a single giant drawer six feet wide, big enough for a woman to hide in, especially if covered in bed linen.

'Thank you, John,' said the Doctor, slapping me on the back. 'Don't say anything, old chap. I think I know how you feel. Let's get back downstairs.'

Blowing up a school full of children! Back downstairs again, I took Tad aside when the Doctor and Clara escorted Isobella upstairs, and we came to an agreement.

Clara remained in the master bedroom, to make sure Isobella didn't feel alone any more. The Doctor threw himself into a well-padded chair when he returned, crossing one long leg over the other, making a steeple of his hands and looking into the middle distance.

'Obviously , the Sontarans felt that Isobella had become a potential threat,' he said to the room at large. 'Why else try to eliminate her. Now, despite their proxy attempt at murder, we know more about them than they would like.'

He looked with a measured caution at both Tad and I.

'Gentlemen. I can guess what you both intend to do when you meet Sontarans. Well, I want you to refrain from vengeful and bloody slaughter, because I want a prisoner to interrogate.'

Tad cocked his head to one side.

'Oh? From where?'

That meant obtaining a map from the TARDIS. The Doctor then indicated Sittangville, a farming village off in the middle of nowhere. He worked out that we had an area of three hundred and twenty square miles to cover, extrapolating from the time it took the Sontarans to "process" Isobella's townsfolk aboard the multi-copter, how many townsfolk there were, how fast a multi-copter flew and the terrain flown over.

'And how?' I asked. 'The Archate aren't going to let us swan about in Amalthean transport.'

Simple, according to our mentor. We'd find a helicopter. Then steal it.


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four: Skulldiggery

Not right now, we needed rest before setting out. The other bedrooms were occupied, so I popped in to see how Isobella was taking her new freedom, a strangely constricted freedom in the bottom drawers of a pair of dressers. Tragedy, farce and Monty Python – this adventure had it all.

Clara sat up in the big king-sized, gesturing "shhh" when I looked in, obscuring the wedge of light from the landing. Then she gestured me in. Those dresser drawers weren't quite shut, allowing Isobella to peer out if she wanted.

'Very tired, very sick in her soul,' whispered Clara. 'Not a happy woman.'

I sat down on the king-sized, feeling tired from my disturbed sleep, and the Perry Crush.

'Can't blame her, not after hearing what the Sontarans did to her friends and daughters.'

Clara put a hand on my shoulder in reassurance.

'They are wicked bad, yes?'

I chuckled silently, making her hand bob about.

'You're biased!' The humour vanished. 'Yes. Yes they are. Deserving of death.'

'Good,' she slurred, lying down again. 'Tired, sleepy, don't talk.'

A huge yawn overtook me, making my jaw creak. Sleepy, you're not kidding. Still, I need to get to an empty room, or chair, or somewhere.

'How sweet,' said Tad, squeezing my ear to wake me. I had, of course, fallen asleep sitting up against the headboard, and Clara had curled up next to me.

'Never mention this to Marie,' I whispered, tiptoeing downstairs. Thank God Sarah Jane hadn't come along, this news would be all over Aylesbury in minutes if we had her with us!

The Doctor walked us boldly out of the pre-fab, only to encounter a very suspicious Officer Headon – no "Julie" about her this morning, she was a Law Officer on duty and no mistake. She eyed us and the golf bag in a very policewoman-like manner.

'What did you get up to last night?' was her first greeting.

'Good morning, Officer Headon,' said the Doctor, very politely and calmly.

'I slept off the after-effects of the Perry Crush,' I replied.

'We got a map from TARDIS,' added Tad.

'As exciting as it gets round here, don't you think?' I added. Steely gaze from Headon.

'_Someone_ abducted an inmate from the city Mercy House last night, and left a member of the Archate dead on the floor.'

'Oh? What were they doing in there at night?' asked the Doctor, inquisitive and innocent all at once. Officer Headon mumbled an answer.

'If you aren't responsible, then you won't mind me checking your quarters.'

Five minutes later she reappeared, looking grumpy.

'Alright, no sign of her. Where are you off to now?'

Speaking enthusiastically, our time-travelling plotter got interested in the rotary-engined transport aircraft out on the field at Darien, chatting incessantly to Headon until our group were walking off the self-driving train and onto the tarmac stands.

'Remarkable!' he said, pointing out single-engined, dual-rotor models, and VTOL short-range heavy lifters, and a twin-rotor personnel version, and a stand of two-person runabouts. 'All imports from Andromache? Oh, they arrive crated, I see. Really, given the general technological level of Magellania when your colonies were first founded, to have such a sophisticated trading and barter structure in place across twelve star systems is nothing short of outstanding - '

By which time we were standing in the cargo bay of the big, twin-rotor helicopter, which smelt of metal and paint and the plastic webbing strung everywhere.

'Oh – just a minute,' said the Doctor. He vanished behind a door in the forward end of the cargo hold. The big rear clamshell door closed, the engines fired, the rotors whirred and we were aloft.

'What's going on!' asked Headon, scandalised and worried. Tad up-ended the golf bag and tipped our collection of guns across the helicopter's floor. 'What! are those weapons?'

'This is a petrol-powered potato peeler,' replied Tad, utterly deadpan, picking up the M79 and loose rounds for it.

'And this is my dual-cylinder chemically-powered Thingummybob,' I tried, hefting the Nitro Express.

'I'm being abducted by a pair of lunatics,' muttered the officer, slumping against the wall webbing.

'HELLO THERE!' exploded interior speakers, set far too loudly. 'Sorry. Is that better? This is your pilot speaking, which is to say, the Doctor. Gentlemen and lady, please secure yourselves against the webbing in order to avoid injury when we manouevre abruptly.'

"Abruptly" meant being thrown around the sky in punishing ways, without warning. During these abrupt flight variations, I tried to explain to Officer Headon what we wanted to do: to locate the Sontaran mine, and have a look see at what there was. She deserved to be brought up to speed, and I needed to keep my mind off my churning stomach and the way the Doctor threw the big aircraft around like a Spitfire.

We found the mine site in thirty minutes, marked by the big helicopter having to descend three thousand metres as fast as possible.

'Anti-electronic sweep measure. Good job I brought my stick of tricks,' the tannoy told us. With a loud and gradually-diminishing chop from the rotors, the big helicopter settled on a firm surface. 'All out.'

Outside exhibited rough, broken landscape, with scrubby bushes and shattered boulders. A rushing sound indicated hidden water moving at speed nearby. The helicopter had landed on a vast shelf of rock that slanted down into purple shadows to the east, the whole vista encompassed by walls of massive boulders and broken hills. In effect, we were in a giant rock basin, where nobody outside could see in.

'Bad lands,' was our pilot's comment. 'From which we can see our enemy, while they cannot see us.'

The four of us toiled over broken ground, gulleys, sliding slopes of shale and succulent bushes that smelt of liquorice when their leaves were bruised. After an hour's progress we were rewarded with a view of the landscape beyond our landing zone; more bad terrain, rocky flats cut by fast-flowing streams, opening out into a plain beyond, where the smashed hills became smoothly-forested uplands.

And in the middle distance, like blight on a leaf, or a planetary disease, stood the Sontaran mining encampment. Great scars stood out against the landscape, gouged into the hills and forests. Spindly towers could be seen at this distance, along with spoil heaps, smoke columns and big, low-slung vehicles lined up along the middle of the plain.

The Doctor took a long, slow perusal via his telescope, sucking in his breath once or twice. He passed on the brass instrument to Tad, who likewise hissed at what he saw. After Officer Headon declined to view, I eagerly took the telescope.

The resolution was fantastic, far better than a nineteenth century artefact had any right to have. Thanks to that I saw the ugly, white, sprawling pile of corpses dumped in a pit outside the mine, a pit full of dead female abductees. Thirty yards by a hundred, at a guess. Ruts or rails ran up to the edge of the pit, allowing bodies to be trucked there for more efficient disposal. Other objects were noticeable thanks to their absence.

'No watch-towers. No fences. No guards. Nothing to stop people escaping.'

'If they're all progs, they won't want to escape,' explained Headon, dully.

'Makes our job easier,' I said, counting rounds for the Nitro, whilst Tad secreted the giant bullet rounds for the M79 about himself. The Doctor couldn't allow us to behave like this, so he forestalled me.

'John – how would you go about attacking that mine?'

Stock response. I didn't need to even think about this reply.

'One – reconaissance. Have a look-see, find out what we're up against. Two – rescue all the abducted women, bring them back here. Three – kill all the Sontarans. Four – blow up and destroy everything in the mine, using whatever we have to hand.'

The Doctor's eyebrows rose in inimitable fashion.

'Thank you, John! Knowing that, I have to generate an alternate paradigm.'

I shrugged.

'Well, we could just jump to Item Three on my list if you like.'

Tad nearly laughed at that, and Headon shook her head.

'_Live_ Sontarans, John. Alive. I need a live Sontaran to interrogate.'

My recommendation about a reconaissance was the only thing the Doctor took to heart. We sat and took turns looking at the mine, entering our observations into the Doctor's white cube. With a bit of jiggery-pokery, he turned our observations into a scaled floor-plan, and that into a three-dimensional projection laid over a big flat rock.

The Sontaran mine occupied several square kilometres, beginning far up the valley sides and gradually working southwards. At least a dozen galleries had been driven into the hills, at right angles to the valley floor. Various workings sat on the valley floor, running along it, to service the mine galleries and the ore they produced. At what constituted the very middle of the middle, stood a solid concrete building: Sontaran headquarters. Squat and powerful, like it's creators. Being situated where it was meant being able to see in all directions. However –

' – no visible weapons mounted,' I observed, to be backed up by Tad. 'If you've taken ten thousand women prisoner and only one escaped, what need for big bad guns?' My point was that the Sontarans ought to be complacent by now about security and access. Headon mentioned trenches and weapon pits – on the far side of the mining encampment, luckily for us.

'Excuse me!' interrupted the Doctor. 'I take full credit for landing on the undefended side of the mines.'

'Do we simply stroll in?' I asked.

'Yes,' he said. 'Headed by Officer Headon. Ah – Officer – you will need to look suitably – worsted.'

That walk for an hour to reach the mine was Officer Headon's worst moment – being transformed from smart officer about planet to half-clad, mud-smeared, zombified peon. The Doctor gave her a dose of his magic-mirror on a stick and she went ahead of us, followed by Tad and the M79, the Doctor and myself bringing up the rear with my elephant gun. I also had the boot knife and .45, and any Sontaran who got in my way would regret climbing out of the cloning vat.

Or they would as long as the Doctor was looking the other way. Besides, he wanted live Sontarans.

'Let me reason this through,' I whispered to the Time Lord. 'The Sontarans land. They enslave any nearby garths. Then they – oh, I don't know, manage a stealth mission close to Amalthea. Land, enslave any Archate members they can find, use them to enslave others.'

A quiet hummed approval was all I got.

'So they can carry on with their mining operations, mining and enslaving. Except thanks to their ham-fisted brutality, Alamthea will reject it's own Archate in a year's time. By which time the Sontarans will have managed – what, exactly?'

'That, John, is what this little trip is intended to discover. Quiet now!'

Walking backwards is a trick acquired for tours in Ulster, which came in useful now. Not that I expected the toadies to creep up on us – with their technology and mindset, they'd simply blast us into blackened rags.

Or they might have done, had they not been settled in a comfortable routine of torture, murder, enslavement and living off immoral minings. Familiarity and contempt breed sloth, indolence and gaps in your perimeter defence. Not only that, this time the toadies weren't warned by their Archate slaves that an attempt was going to be made on their slave operation. The four of us literally walked into the mining operation.

Clearly, from what I could see and comprehend, the Sontarans were using human muscle to carry out what would be done by mechanical operation in conventional mining. The most sophisticated equipment on display were big bulk-ore carrying vehicles, which the Doctor recognised as adapted Amalthean tractors. Everything else was built from timber or shoddily-made metals and plastics – crude trolleys for hauling ore, pulley systems for transporting it out of the galleries, courduroy roads made from felled trees, a huge tumbril that carried corpses to the death pit. Currently there were a few ragged bodies lying upon it, abandoned and utterly undignified.

This was the mighty, galaxy-spanning Sontaran Empire at work? They must be down on their uppers if this was the best they could manage. Third world countries back on Earth could muster better equipment than this sorry-looking blight on the landscape.

Headon waved a warning hand and we ducked back behind a sprawling spoil heap, as two dirty, blank-faced women moved past, pushing a poorly-made truck half-full of rock and earth. They dumped it on the spoil heap, right in front of us, never paying the slightest attention even when the Doctor stood up in front of one. She went back to the truck, getting ready to push it.

'Stop them!' whispered the Doctor, so I got the one nearest us, arm round the throat from behind, pressing up to compress the jaw and stop any sounds, pulling her right arm up and behind her back, then dragging her backwards behind the spoil heap. She didn't weigh much, and didn't even struggle.

'Not like that!' hissed the Doctor angrily, having re-directed the other woman by turning and leading her by the hand. My victim was a bit blue in the face by now, so I guiltily released her. She turned to go back to the truck, so I grabbed her left hand and pulled her back.

The Doctor had Tad and Headon hold the other woman still, inspecting her. She was filthy, her denim coveralls ripped and torn, revealing bruises and contusions underneath. Her eyes were completely lifeless, set in a gaunt face where her jaw drooped in a vacuous way.

'Abominable!' muttered the Doctor. 'Higher functions completely shut off.' He produced his mirror gadget and proceeded to zap the detainee, who gave a huge gasp a minute later. She looked around us, combining wonder and worry in her expression. The Doctor gave the other woman a similar treatment, and she fell to weeping and sobbing.

'No time to explain fully,' said the Doctor. 'I want you to take this device back into the mine and use it on as many of your colleagues as you can. Meet us by the spoil heap furthest from here – no, actually, make that by the tractors. If you hear any gunfire, head due west for a mile and into the badlands. We have a helicopter hidden down there.'

Nodding dumbly, swallowing, the two women went off with their truck. Not before I'd gotten the weeper to dirty her face again – tear tracks in the grime might cause any watching or patrolling toadies to get curious.

'Tad – I want you and Officer Headon to get into one of these mine galleries and sabotage the equipment.'

Aha, and also oho. I did wonder how we were going to lay hands on a single live Sontaran when there were twelve of them loitering around. The trick was to get one or two on their own, all unsuspecting, and then do them over.

Tad and Headon chose a gallery opening on the other side of the valley, one not calculated to draw attention to the "progs" who'd be escaping from the nearby mine. They went sneaking over, moving from cover to cover and finally vanishing into the mine. We revisited the big converted tractors, where the Doctor nimbly scrambled up into the carrying body and scooped out samples of ore.After that, we headed off for the mine gallery to be sabotaged. I didn't know what my inventive Polish friend would come up with. Given his air of quiet, malevolent concentration, it would involve Sontarans falling into bad fortune at the very least. The occasional corpse encountered on our way hardened my resolve. Nobody ought to die like this, worked to death, denied the slightest bit of human dignity, slaving away and dying unmissed and unremarked.

No sooner did we reach the gallery entrance when the overhead pulley system jerked to a stop, the cable parted with a dull twang somewhere inside the mine, and the buckets carrying ores crashed to the ground. Echoes danced across the valley. Within minutes, four Sontarans emerged from their bunker and looked around, trying to spot the source of sonic upset. Pointing at our mine gallery, they began to work their stumpy way upwards.

'Oh dear,' muttered the Doctor. 'I only anticipated one or two.'

'Much as I respect you, Doctor, I don't intend to take on four of those squat little swine. We need to get further inside the workings and surprise them.'

The mine gallery consisted of crudely-worked timber shorings, with an overhead pulley system, and a rough-hewn corridor through the earth and rock. Guttering candles gave a low quality of light to the proceedings as we went along. The route twisted a bit, before ending in a big cavern, where listless slaves hacked ore from a far wall thirty yards high, excavated in great terraces, with wooden ramps between. The exvacated material went into a truck, which was dragged across the floor and up an inclined wooden ramp, to be tipped into the buckets suspended from the roof. A trough of water stood to one side of the echoing chamber, hung around with ladles and bowls. Since the pulley system no longer worked, the assembled slaves stood waiting for instructions.

Both the Doctor and I jogged down the inclined entrance into this cavern, looking for Tad and Headon. Nowhere in sight. Still, the light was bad. Could they be hiding?

'Hsst!' I hissed, which went winging around the cave in fine sibilant style. Two heads poked up from the ore truck. 'Four Sontarans coming.'

Time to think quickly. I grabbed a spade lying loose, and dragged one of the drooling slaves from her position regarding the cave wall at a range of five inches. Standing near the entrance, I warned the Doctor with a look: watch out, and keep clear!

So much for my plans. I expected a single Sontaran to come this far into the cave. Instead two of the stumpy beggars came trotting into the cavern, muttering to each other. My involuntary camouflage – the zombiefied slave – concealed me from the nearest Sontaran, who promptly got a whack on his probic vent with the spade and collapsed.

Slight bonus – neither were wearing helmets, which implied their fellow Sontarans wouldn't be, either.

Toady the Second whirled round to face me, drawing his pistol. The Doctor did his magic with the electric stick and matey found his wonderful forty-second century technology wouldn't work. Instead he lunged at me, in a variety of falling tackle that Wigan might expect to see at the league match on Saturday afternoon. My boxing reflexes got me out of trouble, bouncing nimbly backwards over the floor.

'Aid required!' bellowed the Sontaran wretch, drawing one of those peculiar tetrahedal daggers from his belt and making a ferocious swipe at the Doctor, who only avoided being slashed in two by leaping backwards.

By now I was in trouble. The beefy little bugger opposite me didn't allow me any leeway, advancing rapidly, and putting me in the line of fire of Tad, who had popped up from his hiding place. I did have the Nitro, but it was still slung, and to unsling, cock and fire would take long enough for the Sontaran to disembowel me with his pig-sticker.

'Aid - ' started and stopped my opponent, gasping loudly and pitching to the floor. Twenty yards behind him, juggling a rock the size of a grapefruit and only slightly smaller than the one that hit my enemy, the Doctor gave me a winning smile.

'Cricket skills – never wasted!' he chortled, having managed to hit the Sontarans probic vent from sixty feet, in bad light, and on a moving target to boot. Probably a demon darts player, too.

'Get busy with your sapphire string!' I whispered. 'There's two more on the way.'

In fact the other two toadies turned up whilst the Doctor was still stringing up his fallen foe. They nearly tripped up over the first Sontaran I'd walloped, and one wore a helmet. Ah. Yes.

That was the bad news for us. The good news for us was that I'd unslung and cocked the Nitro.

'Drop your weapons and lie flat on the floor,' I warned them. Tad and Headon clambered labouriously out of the ore truck, Tad cradling his M79.

'Foolish humans!' sneered the unhelmeted Sontaran. 'Your puny shotgun cannot harm us!' and he struck his cuirass defiantly, whilst drawing his knife.

My tongue took over, working at Sarcasm Plus.

'Look who's foolish. The Doctor's not human, _I _ have a degree, and this is a Nitro elephant gun.' I gave him both barrels.

Now, that Sontaran armour is pretty strong stuff. The Doctor told me it's interleaved layers of ceramic, wire and polymer, very strong indeed, certainly proof against knives, fists or low-velocity shotgun pellets. It didn't fracture under the impact of my elephant gun's bullets, but it did deform inwards by a good foot, which ruptured every single one of the Sontaran's internal organs and killed him. Not instantly, either, to judge by his agonised gurglings.

Sontaran Number Four, by this point, lay quivering on the floor. Good hearing, you see – to mix metaphors once again – in fact excellent hearing, which had just experienced point-blank fire from a hideously loud weapon, in a confined space. My own ears were ringing in protest, and trickles of dust came from the cavern roof.

The Doctor tugged my arm, leading me to the prone prisoners, and between the four of us, we dragged them clear of the cavern. Tad tried to speak to me, but gave up when I indicated my currently humming eardrums.

At this point another improvisation struck the Doctor, and he pulled that big silver golf ball from one of his pockets. I can't tell what he spoke into it, not being able to hear anything except an artillery barrage properly, but the effect was to get all the slaves moving out of the cavern, plodding down the terraces, across the floor and past us, along the gallery to the outside world. This took a good few minutes, their pace not being that of Olympic sprinters, exactly. I remained behind to keep an eye on the last Sontaran, since my battered eardrums meant instructions in anything else were hopeless. Tad passed me his grenade launcher, needing both hands to drag the massive Sontarans - my bulk in the narrow gallery was more a hindrance than a help, so he and Headon took towing duties, dragging our sapphire-bound beauties to the outside.

'That cavern needs to collapse and bury the dead Sontaran,' said the Doctor, coming back to enunciate very clearly in my ear from an inch away. 'That way his comrades can't retrieve the body or find out what happened to him.' He passed me two rounds for the M79.

'What about the unconscious one?'

He chewed his cheek for a second, before replying.

'Drag him clear before blowing up the cavern.'

Damn the Doctor and his conscience! And damn John the big softie for even asking.

'Okay – you get on your way, just in case this bang-stick brings the whole roof down. No, no, don't argue, Doctor! My humble rifle nearly caused a cave-in.' I tapped the barrel of Tad's surrendered weapon. 'This thing could collapse the whole mine. Go – you can trust me with the sleeping beauty.' Spoken ridiculously loudly.

Allowing a whole minute for the Doctor and everyone else to get outside, I put a round into the grenade launcher, ready to drag our sleeping Sont to safety before collapsing the cavern on his friend.

Turning back to the cavern, my surprise at seeing the previously-flat Sontaran now upright and moving was considerable. He had dark blood leaking from both ears, and his eyes didn't focus properly, but he was upright and staggering at me, wielding his rheon pistol.

Oh dear. My blood ran chill in my veins. That thing would blow a hole in me big enough to drive a car through.

'Foolish human!' he slurred. 'Your puny shotgun cannot harm me!'

What? That insult again?

'Are you taught this stuff out of a book?' I sneered back. 'Get a new edition!'

He stopped, wobbling.

'You are not female. What are you?'

John's tongue took over again.

'Bad news on a stick.'

I swear he tried to look behind me for the stick, which gave me enough time to point and fire the M79.

The previous bang from my rifle was loud. This explosion, however, blew the Sontaran apart above the waist and knocked me back down the gallery, to the sound of falling rocks.

Seconds later, Tad and Headon were dragging me out of the collapsing gallery to the outside air, where my pounding head stopped me from being interested in anything.

Okay, how do you transport two prisoners weighing nearly four hundred kilogrammes, which is about a hundredweight in proper measurements, when those prisoners don't want to be transported?

Why, you stick them in a mine truck, and you use gravity to speed down the slopes to your rendezvous at the tractors. You also use your prisoners as cushioning, by dumping them on the bottom of the truck, and standing on them. Okay, kicking them as well, when the Doctor wasn't looking. Tad managed to look innocently out of the truck whilst administering painful kicks to the ears of both prisoners, only turning to nod at me.

Twelve freed women were waiting for us at the tractor, not many considering the time we'd been gone. These, however, were all the survivors in that particular gallery. They were told to climb into the carrying body and remain there whilst we travelled. The two prisoners were lashed to the vehicle's suspension, and the four rescuers clambered into the cab.

First order of business was for the Doctor to overcome the Sontaran remote-control guidance system installed to direct the tractor back to their main encampment. That took him all of ten seconds. After that he fired up the engine and drove us away.

Is this it? I wondered? We can get away that easily, in broad daylight, with a dozen freed captives and two Sontaran prisoners?

The Doctor seemed to think so. From the pursing of his lips I could tell he was whistling a refrain, one of his light operatta librettos, no doubt. He turned to flash a grin at me.

'All's well,' he mouthed at me. 'And yes, we can get away that easily.'

Whoops. I didn't realise I'd been thinking aloud.

Later on, when I could hear properly, he explained. The Sontarans were complacent and arrogant about their slave-mining operation, and they didn't get any expected warning from their Archate slaves. So they didn't expect trouble. When that trouble arrived, it took the place of an accident in a mine gallery that killed and buried four Sontarans, who had ordered their slaves out before attempting repairs – or so they would think. All that gunfire took place underground, where nobody outside would hear it. The tractors were programmed to travel automatically, without any prompting, once they had been filled to a certain level of ore, so our journey was utterly routine. As for the missing mine shift of de-programmed women, well, they probably just died on the job. There were sufficient bodies lying around to account for them.

The tractor bounced across the valley floor before making heavy weather of the more broken lands beyond it, jolting from side to side.

'Tractors. Helicopters. Is there any form of transport you can't manage?' I asked, hearing gradually returning to my senses.

'Well, I always found the Sopwith Camel to be an unforgiving brute of an aircraft, despite what Captain Bigglesworth has to say about it!' cheerily replied the Doctor.

I ought to point out here that "Captain Bigglesworth" is a fictional character. However, the Doctor once got extremely hot under the collar when I described the plot of "Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons" to him, and since the good captain of the scarlet variety is a marionette, I did begin to doubt the Time Lord's sanity. Perhaps he was only mocking me in that condescending manner he has. On the other hand – well, luckily for me I didn't have time to wonder too much. Our tractor crested the boulder-strewn rim of the giant sinkhole and bashed it's wheels to bits on the rocks and gulleys beyond. Such mechanical sacrifice meant we got to the helicopter in minutes, instead of the hour travelling on foot would have entailed.

The two Sontaran prisoners, both rather battered and the worse for wear after their journey at suspension-level, were untied and hauled aboard the helicopter, getting a good few kicks, curses and punches from our freed mining captives.

'Alive, please, ladies, alive!' scolded the Doctor, before heading off for the cockpit. 'We need to find out exactly what these Sontaran rogues are planning, and for that I need live Sontarans to interrogate.'

Snap! went Tad's fingers. I looked at him blankly.

'No waiter service here,' I replied.

'No! "Rogues"! I know what these Sontarans are now!'

'Footballs?' accompanied by a kick at, and a hiss from, the helpless Sontarans. Tad clambered away to the cockpit, to try his theory out on the Doctor. Around me, the rescued women wove themselves into the webbing to withstand the takeoff and manouevring of our helicopter. Tad came back from the cockpit, beaming from ear to ear.

'Lash yourself down, you Polish poltroon,' I told him. 'The Doctor doesn't fly – oof! – doesn't fly like Lot pilots.'

My involuntary exclamation came when the helicopter practically leapt into the air sideways. Tad slewed across the cargo bay, to be snagged by a woman and dragged into protective custody amid a tangle of webbing.

'Sorry!' said the woman. 'I'm not making a pass at him.'

'Excuse me?' I replied, my best British officer training coming out.

'Your partner,' continued the woman, nodding at Tad. 'Your lover? Your boyfriend?'

Tad burst into one of the loudest guffaws I ever heard him make. My jaw adopted a position it occupied frequently whilst in Magellania, that of stunned surprise.

'Oh! You're not – ah. Yes. We thought you were commandoes from Philandros,' continued the woman, now plainly embarassed.

'The truth is too long and complicated to go into here,' I tried. 'But we don't come from a Mono-Gee world.'

One of the dirty, smelly, ragged women wrapped in webbing next to me gave me a slap on the shoulder.

'Gaia bless you, man. Whoever you are, thank you.'

'Oh. Not at all. My pleasure,' I replied, all typical British understatement. 'All humans together,' and that phrase of the Doctor's came back to bite me, remembering Clara. 'That is, all humanes together.'

Clara and Salamander had the cushy part of the job so far. Lying in bed, either in the Mercy House or the unprovisioned guest house. Of course, I got this wrong, since the Doctor had been working on their part of his plan since yesterday. He didn't tell either Tad or I about it, just to keep it a big fat surprise.


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five: Interrogation Is A Drag

Within an hour we landed on the hardstand at Darien, to the relief of the control tower, who sent a police hovercraft to meet us.

The police were confounded by the arrival of twelve mine escapees, who overwhelmed them with demands for food, water, showers, clothes, access to telecom, the Archate, the Assembly and a dozen other things besides. Nor were they pleasantly surprised by the presence of two live Sontaran prisoners.

'Interrogation?' asked an officer I recognised, Dunbavin. 'Interrogate Sontarans? How in the name of Gaia do we do that!'

It transpired that the Law Officers had a series of five detention cells beneath their office building, for those women who committed major crimes. Last occupied the year before by a woman who killed a rival in a crime passionelle. Hardly appropriate for the passionless Sontaran toadies, but the best place to keep them.

By virtue of bluster, lying and implied consent, the Law Officers never got to quiz the Doctor about stealing a rotary-wing aircraft before he vanished into the cells. I went with him, dragging one of the toadies with me, unfortunately down several flights of concrete stairs, stairs with rough edges to the steps. After matey had been dumped in a corner, the Doctor took me outside into the corridor to consult. Not good to do it inside the cell, not given how sharp Sontaran hearing was.

'Did Tadeusz explain away his sudden insight? No, no, I suspected he didn't. He had the right idea, with wondering why normal Sontarans behave the way they do. I – ahem! – I'm afraid I rather discounted your reply.'

Which had been about how tradition and ritual and regalia, etcetera, are used to create a sense of belonging to a formation.

'He said "rogues" was the clue. The Sontarans we have encountered here in Magellania are deserters. Deserters. Consider that.'

I did. Desertion is a major military crime. If Soldier Everyman decides that he doesn't like the military life any more, he can always leave it by running away – which puts him in very hot water with his own side. He may run to the enemy, who are often glad to receive him with all the information he can bring them. Or he relocates to a distant part of the landscape, hoping that the military authorities are too busy elsewhere to hunt him down.

'I did wonder about it myself,' continued the Doctor. 'But Sontaran deserters are utterly unknown. This is a unique case.'

So – this lot, the ones who retrieved Salamander, who landed on Amalthea, who enslaved and murdered en masse, they were operating beyond the Sontaran pale. Deserters. No sustaining military tradition or esprit de corps – aha, and now I began to realise why those Sontarans aboard the _Seraphim_ didn't care that we had one of their own as a hostage. He was just another schmuck fallen on hard times. Murder, rob, enslave, exploit, all without any recourse to a superior authority.

This, of course, explained why the Doctor found it difficult to fathom a reason for the Sontarans being here. No terrulian, no Rutans, no mass slave populations. Nothing but a hiding place, far distant from the battlefields of Mutter's Spiral.

'What are they up to here, then? They could live quietly out in the Lesser Magellanic Cloud, except they're making the neighbour's lives miserable.'

That was what we were about to discover.

Half an hour later our discoveries were limited to names: Sub-Commander Kralig and Trooper Rarg. Neither Sontaran would talk voluntarily, nor with the encouragement of being smacked about a bit with a fire axe (no spades in the prison cell corridor). I was perfectly willing to go much further with the fire axe, to the point of removing limbs, but the Doctor – of course – jibbed at GBH upon a pair of GBHers.

His patent spinning mirror on a stick didn't work – both proofed against mind-manipulation. No spoken threats worked, either. I sat next to him on a wooden bench outside the cell.

'What's needed is an edge of some kind, a theoretical acid of the mind that will seek out any weak spots and break through,' muttered the Doctor between his fingers.

I sighed. Time to put the merry mayhem aside and stop thinking about turning the prisoners into piles of quivering offal. How could you break down the barriers of a creature that didn't fear physical torment short of death?

'Doctor,' I began, slowly, thinking the anecdote through while speaking. 'I recall reading a history of D Day. A German prisoner refused a blood transfusion because it wasn't guaranteed free from Jewish or Negro blood. He died.'

The Doctor looked at me, seeing that I was working my way there slowly.

'And two young prisoners from the SS dug what they expected to be their own grave, entirely without fear. They weren't worried by death.'

A silent nod from my audience.

'Sooo – what if those SS men had been threatened with a non-Aryan blood transfusion? A threat that cut to the heart of what they feared most, racial contamination.'

The Doctor rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his chin.

'I see. A psychological threat. Well, what do Sontarans fear?'

Not sure whether this was a rhetorical question or not, I stayed quiet, for all of two seconds. What did brutal militaristic killers fear above all else? Put in a slightly less extreme way, what would turn the Brig into a quivering jelly?

'Being turned into mincing fops?'

It was an off-the-cuff remark, but he seemed to like it.

'Hmm. Emasculation. Feminisation. Emotional expression. All utter anathema. And we have just the tools at hand!'

He went off at a rapid pace, returning ten minutes later with Clara, a spray hypodermic, a spray of flowers and a long purple dress.

'Ooh, hello John. Have you been busy?' asked my green girlfriend. 'I have. I went all over the town - '

'Yes, thank you Clara,' interrupted the Doctor. 'Remember what I told you. John, only intervene at the point where I am just about to inject the prisoner.'

Clara went and nosied at Trooper Rarg in his cell, trussed up in his sapphire string.

'I don't like doing this,' she sulked. 'Sontarans are wicked bad.'

The Doctor glanced at me.

'Yes they are,' I improvised. 'Which is why – ah – which is why what the Doctor asked is important. To break them down and make them less wicked.'

She gave a snort and shrugged off her clothes, putting on the purple dress. Then she did the green glow of shape-changing intent, transforming into a Sontaran.

A Sontaran wearing only a purple dress.

'This is wrong in so many ways,' I muttered, aghast. The stumpy toad man wearing a frock was bizarre beyond belief.

Boldly swinging the cell door of Sub-Commander Kralig open, the Doctor stalked in, waving his spray hypodermic. I followed slightly after, whilst our – and I shook my head in wonder – our fake Sontaran hung about outside.

'Well, you've resisted physical interrogation, old chap,' began the Time Lord.

'I am not old,' hissed Toady.

'So, it's time to begin the pharmeceutical assault,' and the spray hypo got waved. Toady didn't reply to that, licking his lips instead. 'Nine Three Metacorticozone. Destroys the personality completely. Allows us to rebuild you as we wish.' The Doctor scratched his cheek. 'Mind you, I did misjudge the dosage for your colleague.'

Clara sidled into the cell, holding the posy of flowers, delicately sniffing them, or as close as a Sontaran can get to "delicate". The incongruity of the image was stunning.

'Oooh, Sub-Commander!' cooed Clara. 'Haven't you told the humanth what they want to know?'

Sub-Commander Kralig's face was the most expressive of all the Sontarans I'd met. Mostly, it expressed sheer astonishment.

'I've got thome flowerth,' lisped Clara. 'Would you like to thmell them?' and she inhaled deeply.

Kralig's squat face worked fervently, without him managing to speak. My response was to bite the inside of my cheek, in case I burst out laughing.

'Do you like my dreth?' asked Clara, giving a clumsy twirl. 'Much more comfortable than thothe nathty armour thuitth I uthed to wear.' She stopped in mid-twirl. 'That ith, I think I uthed to wear them. My memory'th not very good now.'

'What – what – what - ' blustered Kralig, as the truth – or what we wanted him to think was the truth – began to dawn.

'An overdose. Don't worry, we'll get the amount correct for you, Sub-Commander,' said the Doctor, in a warm and friendly tone, checking the settings on his spray device.

'They thaid I can go collecting flowerth later on,' said Clara. 'And put on thome make-up, tho I don't thtand out tho much. Ithn't that kind of them!' and she waltzed out of the cell with all the grace of a hippo on roller-skates, ducking back in to blow a kiss to Kralig.

'Don't you dare!' barked the prisoner, leaning away from the Doctor. The muscles of his face weren't really made for showing fear but the tone came across in his voice.

'Go on, turn him into a dancing pansy,' I said, managing not to laugh. Holy heaven, this combination of utter farce and extreme evil couldn't get any more pronounced.

'We'll only remove all those nasty aggressive urges,' soothed the Doctor. 'So you can appreciate things the way Trooper Rarg does.' He moved closer to Kralig, who threw himself away from the spray hypo, risking severe cuts from his spun sapphire bonds.

'No! No! I'll tell you what you want to know!' he shouted, very loudly in the small cell.

'Of course you will,' said the Doctor, calmly, still approaching. I decided to butt in.

'Hold on, Doctor. That drug'll knock him loopy for ages, and we need information now.'

Kralig got water, and bread, and a tray of sliced meats, enabling him to chat away at length. That little white cube of the Doctor's recorded it all.

"Deserters" didn't properly cover the Sontarans here in Magellania. They were the survivors of a Rapid Pursuit Group, KVR 147, tasked to carry the war to light elements of the Rutan space fleet. Originally they had a strength of two Linx-class Cruisers and ten Valt-class destroyers, and they fought successfully, if inconclusively and non-stop, for seven years. After a devastatingly effective ambush by Rutans, their fleeing single cruiser and seven destroyers encountered human warships of the Grey Empire. After that, their single cruiser and three destroyers took a pause from fighting. A Sontaran Commander called Gault, exhibiting rare individuality for a clone, took a decision.

If the Rutans were being defeated, and driven into strategic retreat, why should the survivors of KVR 147 risk death at the end of war that had lasted for over a hundred millenia? Especially if a third galactic power, humans, were on the rise.

Gault's suggestion had considerable backing. Enough, in fact, for the disloyal Sontarans to kill their more conventional fellows. Years of inconclusive struggle, followed by the loss of most of the unit, appeared to have soured their morale.

This little force of deserters then made their way to the Lesser Magellanic Cloud, a stellar environment far indeed from the main war effort. Imagine their surprise when they found human colonies there already, small, barely able to defend themselves and ripe for conquest. They picked on Amalthea first because human women are weak, apparently, and these "sexual deviants" would be even weaker, unmetalled by any male stock.

Slaves were taken, programmed and forced to carry out mining operations. When one batch of slaves died off, another would be taken.

Meanwhile, back at the main Sontaran encampment, time-corridor testing netted an interesting and nearly-unique catch: a Time Lord known as "The Doctor", who had been a constant thorn in the side of the Sontaran Empire.

Then, obviously, they realised it wasn't the Doctor, but Salamander instead. However, they could still use him as bait to snare a real Time Lord. That led to the _Seraphim_ being captured, and the crew programmed, and the Doctor's own initial capture. A little recreational torture later, the Sontarans learnt about the existence of an individualistic Rutan.

Such a trophy would enable them to bargain with the Sontaran Empire. Freedom, a fiefdom of their own, terrulian, ships, weapons, carte blanche in the Lesser Magellanic Cloud – all potentially on offer if they could acquire that "infected" Rutan.

Not that the chat was that logical and serial in narration. The Doctor went backwards and forwards over the evidence until he felt satisfied Kralig was telling the truth. An hour later, we took a break and adjourned above ground, in the offices of the Law Officers. The lowest floor was all open plan, enabling us to bag an empty table, after I found the staff showers and Headon stood outside, stopping other females using the facility for a few mintues. When we reassembled I was cleaner and more alert, even if my clothes were pretty wretched.

'Ironic,' was my comment. 'Clone warriors expressing individuality, trying to acquire another ex-warrior because they expressed individuality.'

'Not to mention the appalling behaviour of these same individuals,' commented the Doctor. 'As part of a formal military unit, they adhered to certain standards. As free-booting deserters, they murder on a whim.'

Clara, back in her Annette-disguise and retaining green skin, bounced over to us.

'It worked! It worked!' she crowed. 'Did I do well?'

'Splendidly!' chuckled the Doctor. 'We have a full confession without having to resort to violence. Perhaps a little to John's disappointment.'

'That lisp was a touch of genius,' I replied, to Clara's immediate brightening of expression. 'It made your imitation sound like a real addled dolt.'

There were still questions to clear up. What, exactly, were the Sontarans mining for? What was their long-term plan? Would they still try to lay hold of Clara, mistaking her for Winnie?

One of the phones on our deserted desk rang.

'Call for the Doctor,' shouted a Law Officer from across the room. He took the call, nodding, pursing his lips and frowning before putting the handset down.

'That was the geophysical laboratory at the Higher College. I got Tad to rush those ore samples from the tractor there for analysis.'

Jolly good show, very thorough.

'Entirely mundane ores, apparently. Iron, with traces of copper, tin and molybdenum. No trace of any terrulian at all.'

Okay, so no power ores. Only the sort of things that humans might mine for. One more question to ask our detainees.

Another call came through for the Doctor. Salamander, this time. Whatever he said made the Doctor sit bolt upright and look over to the stairwell that led down to the subterranean cells.

'John – get down there and check the prisoners!' he snapped, still listening to Salamander. Off I went, much as a bull would do in a china shop, Law Officers and probationers scattering out of my way in mixed worry and amusement.

'The toilets are the other way!' called one.

Yes, ta, the comedy circuit didn't miss out when you became a policewoman.

I hurtled down the steps to the corridor, barely missing a woman coming up them. What had she been up to in the corridor?

'Hoy! What were you doing?' I called after her, walking backwards to keep her in view.

'Prisoner inspection,' she droned, not looking behind her. Her voice didn't sound right, dull and dead and lifeless.

Good adjective, because both Sontarans were lifeless when I reached the cells. Shot with a rheon weapon, to judge by the dirty great holes in them. Using a wall phone opposite, I rang upstairs.

'That woman just killed the prisoners!' I shouted, dropping the phone to bound back along the corridor and into the room upstairs, skidding to a halt when I took in the tableau – the dull and listless woman come to life in a most definite way, pointing a rheon pistol at Clara's head. Startled and alarmed Law Officers were scrambling to get out of the way, or in the way, or to unlock a massive steel cabinet containing their strategic-deterrent shotguns, or shouting at the weapon-wielding woman.

'Get me a portable comm suite or this hostage dies!' she shouted, careful not to get too close to Clara.

'No killing!' snapped the Doctor, as much to Clara as the kidnapper. 'No killing! We can resolve this without any violence!'

We could? I'd left my undiplomatic elephant gun and .45 in the TARDIS, out of respect for the way Amaltheans regarded guns with extreme dislike. The Doctor and I edged closer to the pair, who were standing in the middle of a large circle of hostile witnesses.

'Can't you use your magic mirror?' I whispered from the corner of my mouth. He shook his head.

'Nowhere near close enough. Pass me that paperweight, will you?'

I snagged the large circular weight and passed it to him behind my back.

'Who are you trying to contact?' asked a policewoman, to which the kidnapper scowled.

'I must – I must!' she said, almost to herself. Her tone was exactly that of Aarhuis when we first met him aboard the _Seraphim_, unwilling but unable to resist. I darted a quick glance at the Doctor, who nodded.

'Hurry up!' shouted the kidnapper, sounding more desperate than before. I got my boot-knife, wondering: could I get her with the K-bar before she fired at Clara? Or creep round behind her and knock her arm up whilst burying the knife in her brain?

'If you shoot her you've got no hostage,' I tried. 'Also, I will cut you in half.'

'She's one of the Archate!' realised a Law Officer, pointing and sounding not terribly surprised.

'The comm gear is on the way, just lower the weapon,' tried another policewoman. This amounted to a welcome distraction, allowing the Doctor to slip his sapphire string box out of his pocket, press the wire against the paperweight and reel out a couple of metres of filament. He flicked his wrist over in an impossibly rapid action, knotting the wire.

'You two are getting too close – back off!' shouted the Archate member, looking at the Doctor and I. Instead of backing off, I moved behind the Doctor, away to the left, trying to draw her attention. Whatever the Doctor had promised, if that weapon wavered, Miss Kidnapper would get nine inches of carbon steel in the ribs. When the woman's eyes moved to follow me, the Doctor cast the paperweight ahead in an overhead lob, way beyond her weapon.

'Missed!' she snarled, and it did look that way for a second. He'd thrown the paperweight too far.

Well, not quite. The sapphire filament, drawn taut by the paperweight and held in place by a knot, fell on the rheon pistol, then through the rheon pistol, then onto the floor, to be followed by the front half of the pistol and a sputter of sparks.

'Touche,' murmured the Doctor, looking quietly pleased.

The Archate woman looked at the useless piece of metal junk in her hand, then at the closing ring of policewomen, exhaled loudly, then collapsed in a heap, her eyes rolling up.

'Pooh!' snorted Clara in disdain. 'Far too soft.'

Half a dozen Law Officers descended on the fallen woman, quickly growing concerned. They began resuscitation techniques, which went on for a good five minutes, before admitting defeat.

'Dead,' explained one of them. 'But don't ask me how.'

'What did she kill the prisoners for?' asked another.

'I see where that confiscated Sontaran weapon ended up,' added a third.

Us three off-worlders backed away, letting the Amaltheans discuss what had just happened in tones of wonder.

'Did the Toadies do that?' I asked. I got a nod from the Doctor.

'Conditioning command. "Kill yourself in case of capture". John, Clara, we are going to have to tread very carefully from now on. The Sontarans are worried about us, about what we know and what we might discover, or they wouldn't stoop to an act as rash and desperate as this.'

Clara didn't seem bothered about two more dead Sontarans and a dead traitor. Make that "unwilling" traitor. Our mentor wouldn't worry over nothing, so I worried, too.

'So if we worry them too much – they might attack Hollandia?'

He sighed.

'John, that cruiser is capable of _destroying_ Hollandia! A large-yield photonic missile would transform this capital and it's two hundred thousand people into a smoking crater.'

'Wicked bad,' nodded Clara.

Tad and Salamander showed up, at first looking anxious, then more settled. Tad looked conspicuously out of place in the nice, shiny, ordered building, not having had the chance to get cleaned up. Salamander reported to the Doctor. Effectively, he'd been out eavesdropping across Hollandia, seeing how the citizens were behaving, especially after Clara did her bit – her "bit" not having been explained to me yet.

The citizens, apparently, were not happy with the Archate or it's behaviour. Odd things had been happening: members of the Assembly acting strangely, then there'd been that attempted assasination of Isobella, after she'd been held incommunicado for months, and now a dozen so-called "hostages" were free, telling tales of massacre and degraded enslavement at the hands of the Sontarans. Salamander revealed that he'd released Isobella from her hiding-place, deeming her status to be far less unique now, and not sufficient to justify keeping her locked away. Moreover, whilst loitering around the Session House, Salamander had overheard enough detail to worry about quite what one of the Archate was going to do with the Sontaran prisoners. He managed to find a phone and rang around until he got the police station. The rest I knew.

The three bodies got carried away in what passed for an ambulance in Hollandia, for a post-mortem at the Mercy House. More members of the Archate turned up, with their liveried Session House guards, to be greeted with extreme hostility by the Law Officers.

'Is it Archate policy to send out assassins!' was one of the more polite greetings.

'What were you trying to do this morning, commandeering the city's radio net?' asked one of the more senior policewomen, pointing directly at one of the half dozen Archate women. 'The technical staff say you were attempting to call the Sontarans.'

The accused looked surprised.

'What? I've not been anywhere near the broadcasters today!'

Caught on the defensive, the Archate team tried to make up by being extra-officious. This didn't work, either.

'How come that assassin had the Sontaran weapon held securely at the Session House?'

Another officer chimed in.

'And why did one of the Assembly come in here under false pretences and steal a shotgun? We've had to lock the gun cabinet, for the first time ever.'

Once again the Archate team and their escort looked a bit sick.

'We've got them on disk,' added the officer, glaring over folded arms.

One hurried whispering later, the Archate withdrew. Officer Millington came over say that an attempt to lay hands on us off-worlders had been averted whilst the Archate tried to put it's own house in order.

'They haven't given up,' said Salamander, oh-he-of-acute-hearing. 'They intend to detain us, and they'll return, before anything above a minimum quorum can be established.'

Well, now, here was something I recognised. The Archate, all Sontaran progs to a woman, and a bare minimum of the Assembly, who would also be Sontaran progs, would vote on what to do with us. Nothing pleasant. Not capital punishment, no, which still left being locked up in a cell for months, or medically-restrained like the unfortunate Isobella.

'That's political manouevring, Doctor. We need to get Assembly members into Hollandia and the Session House rapidly, or we're going to be on the receiving end of Sontaran sentence-by-proxy.'

Thank heavens for Salamander's hearing! Out of honest curiosity I asked the question.

'Can I ask just why your hearing is so acute?'

He shrugged.

'Endless years listening to nothing and trying to make it sound like something. I trained my mind to pay very close attention to what I heard in the vortex.'

The Doctor, meanwhile, was off being practical. He sought out the more senior policewomen and chatted quietly to them. Clara, in all her green-skinned glory, sat down on a desktop nearby and beamed at me.

'Thank you for helping me with that horrid little woman. Of course, I could have electricuted her dead. But the Doctor didn't want that.'

' "Electrocuted". And it didn't matter in the end, really,' I sighed. Clara cocked her head to one side, mimicking one of Tad's habits.

'Do you feel sad for her? She was working for the Sontarans.'

'Not by choice. They forced her to work for them. Her and all those women dead at the mine.' That ghastly image of the pit full of bodies, disposed of like garbage, came back to haunt me.

'How I would like to meet a healthy upright Sontaran,' said Tad in an undertone. Salamander walked right into the gambit.

'Why is that?'

'To turn them into a horizontal dead one,' he answered, not joking in the least. 'I couldn't shoot the one John faced, or I would have killed John.'

Rubbing his hands in satisfaction, our Time Lord returned.

'Tad, you need a shower. John, much as it pains me, I think you need to obtain your arms from the TARDIS. Can you conceal them?'

Certainly could. That folding-stock FN could be slung over my back, under the denim jacket I wore. A magazine in each pocket, nobody Amalthean any the wiser. The Nitro – not possible, really. Tad could have my .45, and it's holster, and the K-Bar.

When our Polish sphinx returned, looking cleaner and smarter, we trailed to the TARDIS with the Doctor and retrieved our lethal kit, putting it on before venturing outside. The Doctor had a few words for us, which made more sense later on.

'If we are separated, then you can consider yourselves protectors of the Amalthean community. Defenders. Mark that, gentlemen, "defenders". No innovations in bloodshedding, thank you.'

Well, he might ask. Tad and I already had our agreement.

'You couldn't yield up that sapphire string, could you?' asked Tad, to be answered by a shake of the head.

'All gone, I'm afraid. And no Level Five technology available to create more.'

Hmm. Perhaps, perhaps not. I don't think he'd forgotten my nasty little booby-trap aboard the _Seraphim_.

Clara and Salamander – didn't he have a normal name? – greeted us in the Grand Piazza, almost running to get to us.

'The Archate are going to banish Tad and John,' blurted Salamander. 'I heard a police officer take the call from the Session House.'

The Doctor greeted this with a calm nod. No big surprise to him.

'Excuse me?' asked Tad, not looking very happy. That is, he had a wrinkle on his forehead. 'I do not wish to be banished.'

Me neither!

'I think it's for the best, actually,' said our Time Lord. 'Since I intend to neutralise the Archate, which will precipitate a Sontaran riposte here in Hollandia.'

When last Hollandia and Sontarans were mentioned together, a body-count of two hundred thousand had been in the offing. Now the combination suddenly seemed far less dangerous.

'You expect the Sontarans to attack!' I asked, not quite dumbfounded. I got a disarming grin.

'John, I not only expect it, I positively require it!'

I took a long look around the Grand Piazza. No sign of radar or anti-aircraft, or anti-spacecraft, missiles or guns. No heavily-armed military force able or willing to repel the toadmen. Open season, in fact.

'The Archate are trying to get rid of you two in order to make me more vulnerable. As a short-term option it can be sustained, because I know the Sontarans can be dealt with.'

'How!' I asked, probably far too intensely. I pointed at Clara, which is rude but forgivable in a crisis. 'Don't tell me you're relying on Clara as a Trojan horse. You can't put her at risk against those Sontaran butchers!' and according to onlookers and passers-by, fiery sparks flew from my eyes.

My outburst got a roll of the eyes from the Doctor, coupled with a theatrical sigh.

'John, don't be so melodramatic. Clara will not be at risk. I will.'

'Also, John, you forgot Salamander,' muttered Tad.

'Well, I am a bit of a rotter, aren't I?' added Salamander, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Clara had another look in her eye, even if it was a simulated eye, and the twinkle had more than mischief in it.

Honestly, I give up. Clearly the gears of some contrived machination were at work here, and Tad and myself were caught up in them. I had the feeling that the Doctor had at least a dozen plans on the go at once, and he would swap between them at a moment's notice, depending on circumstances. Not only that, to prevent clodhopping humans like Captain John Walmsley from spoiling those plans, those same clodhopping humans wouldn't be told any more than they absolutely needed to know.

'Ohalrightwhendowego,' I mumbled, grumpy and feeling left out.

'Thank you for being humane!' chirped Clara, pressing a curious squished mouth to my cheek.

Two police hovercraft came whining over the flags of the Grand Piazza, heading for our little group, sending dust and debris scurrying over the square.

'Due departure time about imminent,' explained the Doctor. 'Remember what I said before, gentlemen. Sorry, Tad, no goodbye peck from me!'

The two hovercraft singled out the covertly-armed members of our party, one aiming at Tad, the other at me. I walked over to the right, creating a gap between the group and making the hovercraft swerve away from them.

'What is "peck"?' asked Tad, once again puzzled by English idiom.

'Um – used to be a unit of measure. Or what a chicken does. Or "a peck on the cheek" is a – oh.'

'A kiss?' he ventured, staring directly at the approaching hovercraft, not even a crease of laughter at the corners of his eyes, even if he did beat a fist against his thigh.


	6. Chapter 6

Part Six: A Break In the Country

Whereas the past few days had been a collective helter-skelter of rushing around, shooting Sontarans, rescuing abductees, playing the playboy abroad and being conspiratorial, my time from now on became far less urgent and strident, and much more in tune with the Amalthean way of life. For a few days, at least. Don't think that I'm complaining, I'm not – it's a good job I got a rest on the Corrigan garth for what lay ahead.

The police hovercraft that took me off to temporary exile had Officer Headon driving and Officer Dunbavin as my escort. This was not a coincidence: both were extremely angry at the way the Archate were behaving, and intended to see me on my way with information.

'We have orders to escort you to Frangipani,' explained small, wiry Dunbavin. 'Supposedly incommunicado, but they can suck my sweaty socks if they think either of us are sitting still for that! Here, wait a minute.'

She lifted up a seat cover, revealing a storage bin. After a short scrabble inside, she came out with a gazeteer, worn and dog-eared despite being laminated.

'Take this. I reckon the bloody idiots in the Archate are trying to get rid of you – Frangipani is one of the places those Sontaran toads are going to hit for hostages. See?' and she opened the book at one page, pointing at a grey dot sat on the intersection of several roads. "FRANGIPANI" read the legend. "TOADS" read another etched into the plastic, under a black cross penned in on the opposite page. Dunbavin tapped the black cross.

'Their main base. We got a couple of looks at it from orbit, before they destroyed the satellites. The photo's are taped inside the back cover.'

With a backhand flip, she tossed the book to me.

'I notice you've got no knife in your boot.'

'Given up to a greater cause,' I half-lied. 'Tad,' I expanded. She looked back at me, tongue in cheek.

'Your jacket pockets also appear to be strangely distorted, in the same way the back of your jacket doesn't hang properly.'

I shrugged. Trust a woman to notice what's wrong with a man's clothing! Before a word passed my lips, she interrupted.

'I'm not asking, I'm only commenting.'

The journey was a long one. Normally it would have been made by helicopter, but two had been lost without good cause in that canton. The Sontarans were suspected, and rather than risk more helicopters, the trusty if much slower hovercraft got used instead. I dozed fitfully at first, then lay down on the padded seats and had a proper sleep, having contorted myself so my hidden rifle didn't dig holes in my back.

When I woke, that familiar dusky twilight came in via the portholes, and the gradually fading whine of the engine meant we had stopped.

'Journey's end, all out,' declared Headon from the cockpit, coming into the passenger compartment, stretching hugely. 'Wake up, Greta, you human stone,' she said, kicking Dunbavin's foot.

'Ow! Hey, can't a girl rest her eyes?' complained the sleeping officer. Headon took up her webbing harness, snapping it together.

'Er – could you do me a favour?' I asked, having dithered over asking before falling asleep, and now rushing.

'Depends,' replied Headon.

'Well, can you keep a motherly eye on Clara for me?

Dunbavin's eyes got big and interested.

'So it's true – ow! Hey, enough, I'm awake!' she scolded Headon, who looked daggers at her.

'Headstrong girl. She's likely to go after the Sontarans if they arrive, you see, as the Doctor thinks they might, and I'm not there to help. But you are. So,' I finished, weakly.

Headon escorted me outside, leaving Dunbavin to get into the pilot's position.

'Don't worry, I'll look after her. Ignore Greta, she's got a big mouth. Let's get you introduced to the garth.'

That half-familiar smell of grass hung in the air, and the brilliant moons came up over the horizon.

'Pretty idyllic,' I commented. There were pens with sheep in the mid-distance, and large black lumps in the far away that could be cows. Big orchards nearby, and fields that looked to have long cereal crops in, marching away to the horizon. One of the giant tractors, this one with a camouflage scheme, came rumbling down the rutted track, headlights big as bin lids glaringly illuminating us.

Headon waved with both arms, and the massive tractor came to a sliding halt beside us. The big clamshell doors on the passenger cabin opened up, allowing a petite woman to climb down whilst her co-driver and passengers leaned over, staring at the two new arrivals.

'Officer Headon,' nodded the small woman in acknowledgement. 'And this is the exile?'

'How do you do? John Walmsley,' I smarmed, bowing as taught, missing out the "Captain" bit as being introduced to A Man would be quite enough novelty for the moment.

'Oh!' she said, taken aback. 'Polite, isn't he. Minerva Corrigan.'

'Better-behaved than the Andromacheans,' explained Headon. 'But his tongue runs away with him.' She gave me a good-bye salute. 'Look after yourself, John, and this lot of bumpkins, too.'

Minerva gestured me up to the cab of the tractor, and I climbed in, making it uncomfortably cramped in the rear seat, squeezed in next to a pair of lithe, copper-headed teenaged girls who bore a passing resemblance to Minerva.

'Great!' said one, eyeing me. 'Another the size of Fat Anne. Bet he eats by the bucketful, too.' The driver turned in her bucket seat to glower at the speaker, and Minerva pointed a finger when she climbed in and toggled the doors shut.

'That little barb just cost you a lie-in tomorrow, Gloria. Milking duties, at second moonfall.'

'Aw, Mam,' sulked the girl. Her twin sister mocked her silently, until she caught her mother's eye in the rear-view mirror and became a model of good behaviour.

'Messr – no, sorry, _Mister_ - Walmsley is a guest at this garth. Anyone the Archate bothers to exile can't be all bad. You two remember that. Mister Walmsley?'

'Er – yes?'

'If these two, or anyone else, makes life difficult for you, come straight to me. They won't do it again.'

'Oh – right. Thank you. I'm sure that won't be necessary.'

The hitherto silent twin spoke up.

'You hope! This garth hasn't seen a man in ten years.'

'Faith,' said Minerva, in a warning.

'He'll be a big change, Mam, that's all I meant.'

The tractor dropped us passengers off at a complex of long, single-storey buildings that sprawled for at least an acre over the low hills. This turned out to be the family home of the Corrigans, where new buildings were added as or when needed. No lack of space to expand into, and no lack of timber, stone or traded metals and plastics to construct with. Nor was this a frontier community at the cow-and-plough level; microwave antennae stood on the roof, with a big parabolic dish off in a fenced-in area all to itself. Three small hover-vehicles were parked in front of the "house", covered with a semi-reflective netting that I instantly recognised as camouflage.

'We'll introduce you whilst Mam's parking,' announced one twin. They waltzed into the house, leading me through a warren of rooms, walkways and corridors until we arrived at an enormous open plan room, with a canted glass roof. People ate quietly in a corner, a pair of kittens chased each other and five small girls studied the details present on a broadcast screen and scratched away on computerised writing pads – or what resembled them.

Gloria, or Faith, made a rapid round of introductions that I had no chance of remembering. The opposite was not true.

'Have you eaten since Hollandia?' asked a very large young woman at the dining table: Anne. I remembered _her_ name. 'No, I didn't think so. Those Law Officers aren't up on feeding people.'

'I haven't eaten, and I am actually rather peckish,' I said, being polite. Actually I was starving, and the sight of food laid out on the table caused an embarassing rumble of the stomach.

' "Peckish"? Does that mean hungry?' asked a small girl with a grubby face, spooning what looked like strawberries into a bowl, before devouring them with her fingers.

'Politely interested in the contents of your larder,' I replied. 'Larder – pantry – cupboard?'

'Ooh he talks funny,' commented a middle-aged woman opposite, 'I think he means the freezer. Is that how they talk on Mars, now?'

'He comes from Earth, Mum,' explained Minerva, stalking purposefully into the room. 'What, has nobody offered our guest any food!' and there was a snappishness to her voice.

'Here we are,' said that large young lady, reappearing from behind a pair of swing doors carrying a tray. 'Fresh bread, hummus, chicken goujons, and a bean salad.'

'Thank you, Anne,' said Minerva, casting a narrowed eye at Gloria and Faith.

'That's Anne's second course,' sniggered Gloria to her sister, quietly but not quietly enough. Her mother directed an accusing finger at her.

'Milking the day after tomorrow, too.' Both twins retired sulkily.

Minerva shooe'd me into a chair, and took one opposite, getting a plate of what looked like cucumbers; purple cucumbers. Slicing them with quick, deft strokes, she ate them one after the other.

'So, Mister John Walmsley. The Archate have seen fit to dump you on this humble, distant garth. Why's that?'

The explanation took a while, and a couple more women joined the table to listen. This pair held hands, and occasionally whispered in each other's ear, quite the raciest behaviour I'd witnessed on Amalthea so far.

When my tale of helicopter theft and hostage release was told the small girl looked at me with a curiously screwed-up face, smeared with strawberry juice.

'Her mum was taken,' murmured Minerva, leaning across the table. 'We found her hiding in the school basement. Took her in as the nearest garth with room to spare and care.'

The small girl burst into tears. This naturally made me collapse internally, big strong chap that I am on the outside, snivelling coward on the inside.

'Hush, Imogen! You need to be a brave girl, and grow up – ow!' exclaimed Minerva, as I grabbed her wrist. Far too hard, unfortunately, since I wasn't thinking clearly. In fact it felt as if a heavyweight had landed an uppercut in the region of my solar plexus. Mum taken, hidden in school: it had to be!

'Imogen? From Sittangville?'

Minerva tried to release her wrist while nodding, and Imogen nodded too, tears forgotten.

'And your mum is called Isobella?'

This time I remembered to let go of Minerva's wrist, as both she and Imogen nodded again. I fell back in my chair, which hurt since I still had that slung rifle over my back.

'Your - ' and my throat stopped working properly. Cough, try again. 'Your mum is alive, Imogen. She's back in Hollandia. You can't go back there right now, it's going to be dangerous for a few days.'

'What about Sadie?' asked the small, strawberry-faced girl, in an equally small voice that wavered. I frowned and shook my head, not trusting to my voice: Sadie must be the dead older sister.

'Why is it going to be dangerous there?' asked Anne, looking as amazed as I probably did at this sudden reversal of fortune.

'Sontarans. They'll probably try a raid there.'

'Who says so?' asked Minerva, aggressively.

'Well, the Doctor.' Hopefully my voice and face expressed all the conviction I felt in the Time Lord's judgement.

'I don't need a doctor,' quavered the middle-aged woman. Minerva sighed.

'No, mum, not you. The one we call "The Traveller".'

Imogen burst into tears, then raced around the table to hug Minerva tight enough to make her cough. The child relinquished her grip for a second to give me an equally intense one, which drove the rifle magazine into a kidney, wincingly hard. She went back to Minerva and cried herself out, until Anne took charge and carried her off to bed.

'That's – that's – well, words fail me,' said Minerva, flicking a knife over and over.

'How unusual,' said her mother. She got a stare and a tut.

'Happy to be the bearer of glad tidings,' I said, truthfully.

'And a weapon under your jacket,' observed one of the romantic pair.

'Yes, quite. Do you mind if I take it off? Imogen caused permanent damage to my internal organs when she squeezed me.'

Nobody said "yes", nor did they say "no", so I doffed my denim jacket and unslung the FN, sitting it on the table just in front of me. Dead silence hung in the air.

'That's a funny-looking shotgun,' observed the second of the romantics, resting her chin on her partner's shoulder.

'It's _not_ a shotgun,' I warned. 'It will kill at ranges of up to six hundred yards. And it fires ten rounds per second.' To be on the safe side I removed the magazine and cocked the action three times. 'Okay. Now it's an expensive, machine-tooled, precision club.'

Another silence settled over the table. That didn't stop me from scoffing the entire contents of the tray provided by Anne.

'And The Traveller sanctions this?' asked Minerva.

'You bet. The Doctor said I needed to help defend the garth I got sent to.'

'I really don't need the doctor,' protested Minerva's mum again, to an exasperated sigh.

'I think it's time for everyone to head for bed,' declared Minerva. 'Girls, you can finish that homework tomorrow.' The children watching the broadcast screen ahh'd in disappointment, then dutifully turned off their strange devices and trooped off. I stood up to see the other women out of the room, as etiquette dictated.

'Good night, good night, good night, good night,' I farewelled, getting long, solemn stares from the girls having left their homework behind.

'Ooh, don't them Martians talk funny,' said Minerva's mum to herself as she ambled out of the room.

'Mum!' scolded Minerva. She turned to me. 'She's all there and a bit extra, just likes to play the idiot in front of strangers.'

Before I could make any move, she motioned me over to a corner and a suite of giant cushions that served as chairs.

'Not you, not you. First, you haven't been shown where you're sleeping, and second, I want a bit of the bigger picture. Go on, sit.'

She whistled twice and the lighting dimmed.

'What constitutes the bigger picture?' I asked. 'You mean what the Sontarans are up to?'

'Partly that. Also what's going on in Hollandia with those morons who are supposed to represent and serve.'

The Sontaran's plans were a bit of a mystery. So far we realised they were renegades, mining metal ores for an undetermined project, and using the Amalthean population as slaves. Beyond that lay only speculation. The Archate, according to the Doctor, were all Sontaran slaves to a woman, blindly obedient to their master's whims. His having checkmated the politicians meant that he suspected the Sontarans would arrive in person to try and kill or capture him.

'Ha! No big surprise there!' snorted a disgusted Minerva. 'Prating on about the sanctity of life and how weapons are taboo. Then ignoring any threats to our lives. They must have known about Isobella's daughter, and they didn't bother to re-unite those two. It's only thanks to the garths setting up a radio-net that we can evacuate before the stumpies get here. The Archate didn't bother to arrange that.' There was more, mostly insults in a low voice that didn't carry. She produced the battered gazetteer Dunbavin gave me earlier, opening it at the pages that displayed relative distance between Frangipani and the Sontaran's landing site. Half a dozen other small grey sites, denoting other garths, had been crossed out, the victims of attacks that emptied them of their population.

'To judge by this, Frangipani is likely to be attacked next. And the Archate sent you here, of all places. I think they want rid of you!'

With my anti-social record of killing and crippling Sontarans, they very well might. Tad's garth lay much farther to the east, the other side of the continent. Probably equidistant from the Sontaran's base too, all the better to get rid of him.

Minerva showed me to a spare room off in a corridor that faced onto fields of poetically-waving wheat, illuminated by multiple-moonlight. The bed wasn't long enough, and my feet stuck over the end. Contorting myself into a huddle with the FN under the pillow enabled all bodily parts to be covered by blanket.

Next morning the working folk kindly let me stay in bed until Second Sun – that is, the second dawn, when that fiercely bright sun climbed up over the horizon after it's rosy predecessor. The beams from this solar furnace were bright enough to wake me and start a search for breakfast.

'No food 'til lunch,' announced a small girl doodling on a computer screen in the open plan dining room-cum-lounge. 'But there's fruit.'

There was food in bowls on the dining table: apples the size of footballs, pears with red skins and what had to be corn-on-the-cob. My nutritional adviser solemnly watched me cut slices out of an apple, then down a pear. Raw sweet corn I'd rather do without, but the small girl took a cob and rapidly scoffed the corn from it.

'You don't have to boil that?'

'Silly!' she said, chewing a mouthful of corn. 'Why would you need to boil it?'

Oh well. The forty-second century garden at work. The corn was tasty, if a bit firm. I gnawed two cobs bare and felt fuller and more interested in my surroundings.

'Where is everyone?'

'Working,' said my information source, busy doodling.

'Not you?'

She looked up at me from under her eyelashes.

'No. 'cos I was bad yesterday I have to do extra homework.'

'Extra homework. That's bad.' The doodling on that computer screen must be homework.

'Yes!' she agreed, vehemently. ' 'specially since I can't see the baby chicks today.'

'A deprivation undoubtedly as bad as extra homework,' I agreed with her. She furrowed her brow and then decided I wasn't making fun of her.

'Yes. Aunty Min is cross with everyone because the twins took their Elective. Gloria's going to Rainbow and Faith's going to Andromache.'

That explained a little of the late-teen angst yesterday; two girls about to leave the nest and seeing how far they could push Mum.

After a short silence, the small girl plucked up the courage to ask me questions.

'Did you really bring a gun here to kill people with?'

Oh dear, rumours were already flying!

'Certainly not, small girl. If the - '

'Ellie. You can call me Ellie.'

'Thank you, Ellie. I don't kill human beings.' Well, not usually. 'But the man you call The Traveller wanted me to help defend whoever I ended up with.'

'Against the Bucketheads?'

'The Buck – oh, I see. I call them the Toadmen. Yes. They are horrible creatures.'

'Yuck, they are! All hairy and lumpy and green and slimy.'

'I meant on the inside, Ellie, on the inside. The way they think and treat other people makes them horrible. Don't judge a book by it's cover.'

Oh, very profound and deep and meaningful, truly the Doctor would have been proud of me, if the effect hadn't been spoiled by Ellie asking what a book was?

A flood of women came into the house by the time I got hungry again, including some I'd not met the previous night. Minerva came over to Ellie and I.

'Sorry to leave you alone, Mister Walmsley. We're all busy at present. I need to get some work out of the twins before they take the shuttle out to _Seraphim_. Ellie, you didn't pester our guest, did you?'

Shake of head from Ellie.

'No, Aunty Min. Have you ever seen a book?'

Books were long obsolete, I was informed. Cutting down trees to pulp them, process the pulp, printing, binding and adding illuminated letters was grossly inefficient, it was all done with computer databases now. The gazetteer Officer Dunbavin provided me with looked crumpled and old because it dated back at least ninety years.

I helped to carry crockery and cutlery from kitchen to dining table. Even if I'd found the kitchen earlier it wouldn't have helped, since it looked more like the cockpit of Concorde than a kitchen. That constellation of lights, meters and switches were the ovens, that big silver and white box cleaned dishes using sonics, the art deco wardrobe was the freezer entrance, that was the flash-freezing equipment –

'You're not familiar with any of this, are you?' asked Minerva. 'I begin to understand that the Traveller told the truth about moving backwards and forwards in time.'

My confession about hailing from the late twentieth century went down fantastically well at the dining table, a real topic of conversation. There were problems with finding common ground, the first cropping up when I described myself as trained to be "an officer and an English gentleman".

'What's "English"?' asked one of the small girls.

'What's a "gentleman"?' asked one of the women.

'England? You've not heard of it? But – there'll always be an England!' I spluttered, offended that the best and most perfect country in the world seemed to be forgotten. 'You know, part of Britain. Tea, bad weather and fondness for animals.'

Blank looks around the table, until one woman brightly spoke up.

'Oh! You mean Albion! Off-shore province of Europia.'

The Grey Empire began to pall, I felt.

'I hope the French and Germans aren't there, either,' I muttered. That would be too much to bear.

Mostly, the women wanted to know about politics. Bit of a busman's holiday, that, given my degree. Their appetite for information was voracious – when did universal suffrage come in, were there educational restraints on voting, what difference existed between local and national elections, how did single transferrable voting work, who monitored politician's behavious, how many political parties were there, how did you form one – the questions went on and on. I got more background information about their ancestors, who fled the Grey Empire centuries before. Another Magellanian world got mentioned – Phaedra, where the settlers were religious adherents of faiths considered dangerous by the Grey Empire. Being Christian, it seemed, was a criminal offence. Being of any faith, in fact, seemed a quick ticket to prison. Or a sentence to "thought-surgery", as an option. My ignorance of thought-surgery remained, it didn't sound like the sort of subject matter I'd enjoy. And, even if you were a sincere believer in the official Statist politico-religious substitute, if you were a "mono-gee" then you could count on being executed if discovered for "Violation of State populace maintenance".

Eventually I voiced my dislike of the Grey Empire.

'No wonder your great-grandparents left. This Grey Empire sounds vile.'

'That's why we're so far from it,' said Minerva. 'Magellania exists – I should say existed – to allow human beings to live how they wished. Now we've got the Sontarans to contend with.'

Yes, for the moment. Whilst Tad and I were off in exile, the Doctor was free in Hollandia. He'd been cooking up a scheme of some description with the Law Officers before I had to leave.

'I was on the microwave link to Hot Springs,' announced Anne to the table at large, whilst looking at me. 'There's a lot of rumours flying around about strange events in Hollandia. And about our guest.'

Projecting an air of complete innocence takes practice. I'd had practice, which may have convinced the eaters.

'A hired assassin from Philandros, come to kill the Archate's enemies. A spy for the Grey Empire. A spy for the Sontarans. One of the Archate in disguise. A man who rips out the throats of Sontarans with his bare teeth - '

'Anne!' exclaimed Minerva, casting a look at the younger children.

'A charmingly well-behaved guest with a winning manner?' I ventured.

'A character-sketch spoilt only by that weapon you carry,' commented one of the newer arrivals.

When the meal finished, I found Minerva.

'Do you have any hard physical work that needs doing? I ought to earn my keep while I'm eating your food.'

'Hmm. Hard physical work?'

It made sense. Forty-second century technology would probably be way beyond my comprehension, a fact which occurred to Minerva as quickly as it had to me.

'Yes there is. Anne is putting in fence-posts for a new corrall. Help her.'

The young lady Anne wasn't really fat, just large, with a chubby but pretty face. She got the jobs that required sheer force, and had been pounding big wooden fence posts into the hard ground all morning, marking the outer edge of a corrall about six hundred yards square. With two of us, the work went quicker. At first Anne's conversation consisted merely of instructions strictly to do with the job in hand, until she felt more comfortable with a man nearby.

'Have you really killed lots of Sontarans?' she asked, before passing me a vacuum flask full of iced water – necessary out in the heat and double-sunlight.

'A few,' I cautiously replied. Established by pacifists, the citizens of this world wouldn't take kindly to a bloodthirsty maniac boasting about slaughter and death.

She laughed.

'Oh, you're definitely not a Philand! They'd love a chance to fight the stumpies and brag about it. I think I would, too.'

Throwing the flask to her, I shook my head.

'No! Bad idea. They mass twice what you do, and their weapons make holes that don't heal. If you get the warning about them arriving here, grab the kids and run for it.'

She pointed out my FN, slung over a fence-post (no way was I going to leave it lying around in the houses!).

'Nope. That would probably just bounce off their armour. I used a high-velocity half-pound grenade to kill the last one I encountered.'

That meant explaining what a grenade was while we hammered the next post in. I skated over details of the Sontaran getting disintegrated above the belt; a bit too graphic. It was my turn to ask questions after that.

'Do the stumpies still land in a big circle around a garth when they attack?'

Yes; from what survivors said, they still did that, but with far fewer of their hemispherical craft doing the attacking. Could they be conserving energy supplies? Possibly. There was none of that power-ore on Amalthea for them to refuel with, and they never encountered resistance, so a sensible toady commander might decide four craft could do the job as easily as sixteen.

'How much warning will you get if they come here?'

Only a few minutes. That parabolic dish back at the house was a low-level radar. If a Sontaran raid came for Frangipani, the alarm would sound and the panic plan for evacuation went into action. Anne looked a bit subdued after telling me this. Later I found out why: the whole garth had practiced a mock-evacuation, and she got left behind. Not quick enough on her feet, and normally she was out working on her own in distant fields.

The line of posts we'd hammered in formed one side of the corrall, and a second by the time our next meal came due. I learnt from Anne that Minerva's twin daughter's consistently picked on her, mainly because she didn't have a partner or girlfriend.

'Too fat and ugly,' she sighed, in mock-pity. 'Not a problem either of those two have,' she added, hammering the fence post with considerable venom.

'You're not fat, and you're not ugly, either,' said John's Tongue, much to the surprise of John's Brain. Anne looked at me in surprise, then alarm.

'Don't worry, I'm not making a pass at you. Trying it on? Copping-off? Attempting anything?' I reassured her, trying to find an idiom she'd understand. 'I am armoured by the love of a good woman.'

'D'you mean that Rutan female?'asked Anne, displaying unwelcome knowledge.

'No!' I replied, hotly. 'My girlfried, Marie. Back on Earth.'

'That would be the Earth of two thousand years ago, would it? Bit of an age difference,' retorted Anne, grinning and enjoying herself.

'Yes, but – no, I know that she's in the past now, but I'll be going back into the past in the near future, so while she isn't here now – is any of this making sense?'

I should have stuck to hammering fence-posts.

'What I meant was that I've had my fair share of people taking the mickey out of me because of my size. It used to happen most at school, except it had to be a gang of them or they'd get flattened.'

Once again, achingly profound John, the Doctor would have been gratified, if Anne hadn't stopped me to ask what a "school" was.

After a meal where I ate, talking little, it was back to more fence-post hammering. We got the full corrall fencing done before it got as dark as it ever does on Amalthea. Next day, I was informed, the staples would be hammered into the posts and the barbed wire strung between them.

My ears pricked up when barbed wire got mentioned. Professional interest and all that. When I asked about where it came from, I was told the wire came from one of the garth's residents who ran a metal workshop and foundry. Induction furnace, laser welding, flash-casting, three-dee metallic sculpts – all pretty basic stuff. For the residents, I mean. None of it was familiar to me.

The old grey matter started to ferment a little at this information. "Defend", said the Doctor. Without spilling oceans of Sontaran blood, he implied. And no improvising explosives and infernal engines for destruction and confoundment of your enemy. A bit of a spoilsport that way, the Doctor.

'You're very quiet tonight, Mister Walmsley. Too tired to talk?' asked Minerva at the evening meal.

'Hm? Oh, sorry, yes, the cat got my tongue,' I replied, and then had to explain what a cat was, and then what a pet was. The Magellanian settlers brought only farm animals with them, for meat or milk or brute motive force to begin with. Pets were unknown on an overcrowded Earth.

'No, actually, Minerva, I was wondering how much barbed wire your metalsmith could make.'

'Kilometres of it, I suppose,' she replied, plainly curious.

'And the ground-loading of your tractors?' which caused a few furrowed brows. Minerva nodded at Olivia, a tractor-driver, mechanic and all round expert.

'Very low, given the size of their tyres and footprint. Considerably less than a full-grown woman. Or man,' she hastily added.

'How many two-inch nails can you spare?' and I then had to indicate approximately two inches.

'Thousands. Millions, maybe. Why!' asked Minerva. Her tone of voice brooked no argument. Typical woman, hint to her and she wants chapter and verse.

'Last question: can your metalsmith make small castings?'

'Yes! Now tell me why all these questions!'

Time for John to reveal that knowledge is power.

'I will - tomorrow. No, no, I need to see your metalsmith tomorrow and ask them a whole lot of questions.'

By the second mealtime I had zipped around Frangipani in a hovercar driven by Olivia, visited the Fosters, who ran the miniature factory in the garth, and came back to the dinner table in fair spirits, together with a handful of props.

Faith and Gloria pestered me all during the meal, until a snappish Minerva got them to be quiet, and once the dishes were away, I plonked my collected bits down on the laminated tabletop.

'For defence of your garth,' I proclaimed.

'I do like a party!' beamed Minerva's mum.

'Don't scratch that surface. It takes special solvents to fix,' complained Minerva.

'Now, imagine this is a roll of barbed wire,' I began, holding a small coil of copper wiring in my hand. I stretched it out taut. 'Normally, this is how you string it between posts to keep cattle in.' Producing a second coil, I pulled the ends gently, creating a concertinad coil of copper wire. 'A roll of barbed wire coiled out like this, and staked down, is exceedingly difficult to get through. Put another roll alongside it and another on top of those two and it becomes near-impossible.'

Minerva caught on instantly. Quick on the uptake, she.

'So you could fence a garth with coils like that and keep the stumpies out?'

'It would take kilometres of wire!' objected one of the women who'd been romantic that first night. Shona, I think.

'Not keep them out, no - after all, you can't block off your roads in and out. It would restrict where they could get in, a great deal. Vintage World War One.'

Exhibit two came next.

'This is four of your five centimeter nails, flash-welded together at their head. They project along the axes of a tetrahedron - '

'That's in our homework!' gleefully announced Imogen.

'Well-spotted, Imogen. That means that, whichever way it falls, a nail is always pointing upwards.' I indicated upwards with a finger.

'Does he mean the angels are watching?' whispered Mrs Corrigan Senior, hoarsely, to be frowned at ferociously by Minerva.

'Ooh! Imagine standing on that!' winced Anne.

'Just so,' I replied. 'Called a caltrop, or crows-foot. Normally used against horses, from the Medieval era onwards. A two hundred kilogramme Sontaran stepping on one of these will stop chasing humans, believe me.'

Then there was the wicked-looking double-ended spike, which had a flat spur projecting halfway down it's flank.

'This one is Roman. You take a length of timber, tapered at one end, and knock it into the ground. Using a hammer on this spur, you knock the spike into the wood's flat end. For added nastiness, you can barb the spike. Once again, any Sontaran stepping on one of these will start thinking about his aching feet and not bother about chasing anyone.'

The collected women inspected the nastiness on the table and looked at me.

'Clever, these Martians,' muttered someone – I could guess who.

'Purely defensive,' I said, in defence. 'Ancient technology. The Traveller-friendly. Non-explosive.'

'Yes. I see,' replied Minerva, thoughtfully. 'Tell me one thing.'

'Yes?'

'What is World War One?'

My little technical brainstorm went down pretty badly with the women in Frangipani, whose responses ranged from disgusted to highly-approving.

Alright, only Anne approved highly. Anything that helped her get to a hovercar before the stumpies arrived got her vote.

Anyway, I was once more cast out to do the hard physical work, stringing barbed wire upon the fenceposts of our recently-completed corrall. The heat meant I took off my denim jacket, then the heavy cotton shirt, before they were completely ruined by sweat. Anne's eyebrows rose when I doffed my shirt.

'Don't think I'm going to do the same!' she warned me. I probably blushed.

'I only have what I stand up in, and this heat is making me sweat buckets. As for your shirt, Miss Schiffmansdottir, anything I say will be wrong. So I shall say nothing.'

She flicked a pebble at me.

'There's a stand barrel over by the corner of the eaves. You can pour water over yourself and cool off that way.'

Warning bells went off in my head. This is exactly the sort of malicious trick soldiers play on each other – the barrel is full of urine, or leeches, or it never existed in the first place, or another person leaps out of hiding and drags your pants down around the ankles whilst a third man with a camera – you get the idea. Suspiciously, and casting looks left and right, I went to the stand barrel and had an ad hoc bath. It was extremely refreshing.

'Hey, Mister John, where did you get all those marks?' asked a small girl's voice from behind me whilst I poured water over my head with a great steel ladle.

Straightening abruptly, and whirling around, I came face to face with Ellie.

'Oh! Good Lord, how long have you been there!'

She squinted at me.

'Ages 'n' ages. Did you mean to splash me?'

'No! No, you surprised me, that's all. Marks? What marks do you mean – ohhhh. Oh yes.'

Various scars from various wars. Rugby matches, Ulster, the Soviet Union, and latterly the UK. 'Well, you see, I was deep-sea diving in the Lemonade Sea, and a passing giant squid attacked me with his five hundred tentacles, all a mile long. I had to swim at a thousand miles per hour to the nearest sperm-whale and use his jaw to prise the monster free. Then I needed to scrape the whale loose against the wreck of the Titanic, and _- the most dreadful thing happened!_'

Ellie's face was a picture of disbelief and surprise.

'What!' she squeaked. 'What happened!'

'I was nearly late for tea,' I deadpanned, dipping my shirt in the barrel of water and putting it on.

'Awww!' she said, wrinkling her nose up. 'You big fibber!'

After that none of the small girls showed any fear of me, nor any respect either. Their mothers might look at me with all the fond regard a leper could expect; the daughters appeared to regard me as a human-shaped climbing frame that came with infinite patience as standard.

The treatment of John as a life-form akin to a rabid rat came to an abrupt end two days later, after a subdued but definite panic in the small hours of twilight. Minerva, looking tired and grumpy, flatly told us at breakfast (First Sun) that the garth of Holmlea had been attacked in the night by Sontarans. Tad, in exile there, had gotten away with the women and only four or five had been captured. "Four or five" sounded bad to me, if not to the women – thirty or forty had regularly gone missing before.

'We start on those devil's devices of Mister Walmsley's straight after breakfast,' said Minerva, daring anyone to answer her back. Faith, Gloria and Shona all began to protest.

'Be _quiet_!' snapped Minerva. 'I sent diagrams of what Mister Walmsley proposed to us over to Holmlea and they put up a barricade of barbed wire. Otherwise precious few would have escaped.'

Nobody said it, but the feeling persisted that if so few women had been captured at Holmlea then the Sontarans would arrive at Frangipani, looking for slaves. Work went on around the garth at a frantic pace; Olivia and the Fosters put an electromagnet in the bottom of a plastic bucket, then filled it with caltrops and turned the magnet on. That created an instant spinefield far quicker than my suggestion, racing around in a hovercar and hurling handfuls of caltrops. Encouraged by that, they began to adapt plastic buckets and electromagnets, creating enough for three buckets per household. When the alarm sounded, the buckets would propel their contents for hundreds of yards. Teams of stringers went out with massive coils of barbed wire, putting up a slim cordon that ran around the garth perimeter. The Foster's took on volunteers to cope with their workload, making three kilometres of wire with five-inch barbs. They cast hundreds of the spurred double-spike, which took the longest to prepare due to the timber stake it was forced into. We set up individual patches of these, off the roads, angled forward in the direction an attacker might come from, hidden in shadows or behind hedging or fencing. Gloria came up with the bright idea of ringing them with pegged-down yellow tape, making sure that nobody strayed into these gardens of spikes, and she had the next bright idea of ringing perfectly safe patches of ground, too, just to confuse an attacker.

Olivia brought news of the kind I'd been dreading in the early evening, whilst I was excavating a special surprise.

'The Traveller's on the link. Want's to speak to you.'

I was on a stringing team, far from the Corrigan house, so Olivia had come out in a tractor. We barrelled back at top speed.

'The stumpies will try to get at least one of your tractors,' I warned her. 'We smashed one to bits at the mine site.'

She patted a heavy-duty vacuum flask that dangled from her belt.

'Don't you worry about that, Mister John. I have a talent for mischief myself.'

The Doctor's voice sounded weary.

'Get ready for trouble, John. We've beaten off a major Sontaran attack here in Hollandia, at considerable cost. They'll be out for revenge, I expect. Failure at Holmlea means Frangipani is a definite target.'

'Are you okay? How's Clara?' I asked, instantly worried.

'I am, fortuitously, unharmed. Clara is fine. So is Salamander.'

Mention of his name creased my brow. Once a rotter, always a rotter. I still didn't trust him and didn't especially care if he got bludgeoned to bits by the toadies. Even if he was the reason we were out here in the first place, the swine.

'I've been demonstrating one or two methods of passive defence here, Doctor,' I warned. 'Ancient history to the women here, but likely to be effective at least the first time.'

Despite his aversion to violence, the Doctor sounded interested.

'Oh? You must tell me more when we have time. I have to go now, the Assembly impeached the Archate and an emergency replacement is being voted-in. Take care! Remember what I said about defending. Defending, not attacking.'

Minerva told me what she'd heard from Hollandia and the two battles there. Firstly, as the Doctor expected and (worryingly!) hoped for, the Sontarans sent a flight of their small, domed spaceships to Hollandia, landing in the Grand Piazza. Three ships, with five toadies aboard each, situated equally spaced from the TARDIS. Clara remained inside the spaceship, sternly warned by the Docotr and Headon, escorted by Salamander. When the stumpies landed, they found that their weapons didn't work – the Doctor's electronic stick doing it's magic again. Not only that, they found several dozen deputised Amalthean Law Officers lying in ambush and carrying rheon pistols. Officer Headon demonstrated that these worked by blowing a hole in one of the spaceships.

At that point, the Doctor's plan anticipated that the Sontarans would chuck in the towel and surrender, being mere unmotivated renegades. The ambush was a big fat bluff – the only real rheon pistol was the single one held by Headon, all the others being replicas – that same pistol taken from the _Seraphim_, impounded by the Archate, cut in two and then painstakingly repaired by the Doctor. However, several of the toadies decided to get physical with their daggers. Headon killed two of these and the other Sontarans began to wonder why the rheon pistols weren't being used. A short, ugly battle ensued. Salamander helped by emerging from the TARDIS with my elephant gun; the Doctor appropriated the Nitro and dropped two Sontarans with a single bullet each, in the leg, so they survived.

They and two others, badly cut about. Eighteen Law Officers were dead, and every other one was injured. The Doctor bitterly reproached himself for the deaths afterwards, but I don't see what else he could have done; he'd nearly succeeded in bluffing fifteen killers into surrendering to one woman with a pistol.

Mere hours after that, the Sontarans proved that they wanted the Doctor dead and were prepared to be complete bastards about it. One of their surviving Valt destroyers appeared high over Hollandia and began to blast the city with meson cannons. Safely enough for them, from a mile up. Desperate situations call for desperate measures and the Doctor's TARDIS suddenly vanished from the Grand Piazza after he made a dash for it when the bombardment began. The Amalthean's talking to Minerva thought, wrongly if justifiably, that he'd abandoned them – until TARDIS reappeared in the great square, glowing and smoking. The Doctor asked that nobody approach the spaceship until it had been washed down. Far above, the Valt destroyer turned into an expanding cloud of atomised vapour. Apparently, spaceships do that if a large object suddenly appears in the middle of their tellurian-powered engine pile –

This second brief battle caused approximately two thousand casualties in Hollandia. Minerva's contacts couldn't be more exact, since bodies were still being removed from collapsed buildings. The Law Officer's plotting with the Doctor came to fruition right then – they brought in every member of the Assembly who could be found, driving them to the steps of the Session House. The Assembly then voted to impeach the current Archate and elect an emergency version. Current Archate members were tracked down and tranquilised by surprise, mostly successfully so far. A few were missing, a few obeyed their Sontaran conditioning and died when approached.

That's where things stood at present. Minerva shook her head in shocked disbelief.

'Two thousand people killed or injured! I can't send Imogen back to that. Hollandia isn't safe.'

'Neither is Frangipani. You need to evacuate the kids, send them on to the nearest garth if you won't send them to Hollandia.'

My hard-headed advice. Silently, I wondered why the Sontarans didn't blast half the planet to bits when they arrived, establish a reign of terror, which seemed more their sort of thing.

The family groups in the garth chatted briefly over the radio, and agreed to send their daughters off to the next garth, eighty kilometres away. Olivia would take them in a hastily-converted trailer towed by a tractor, within thirty minutes.

The grimy-fingered mechanic took me off to one side before she left.

'Here, take this,' she hoarsely whispered, passing me her heavy-duty vacuum flask. 'Flash-frozen tractor fuel.'

'Great!' I replied. 'Just what every man wants. For cooling drinks?'

'No! Don't you – oh. Of course, you won't have this stuff back in the past.'

One crash course in flash-frozen tractor fuel later, I now knew that this stuff, if tipped from the flask onto a hot surface, would sublimate and rapidly ignite.

'Any part of a tractor engine or the exhaust system. Or try the kitchen microwave.'

Feeling a lot happier that the children were being evacuated, I was part of the crowd of women waving them off. I maintained my dignity and composure, and didn't weep and wail like some of the garth.

'Huh. Typical man. All the expression of a stone,' criticised Shona, snivelling and waving to her daughter as Olivia turned the engine over. Norma, Shona's partner, snivelled on Shona's shoulder.

'Oh, he's alright, mummy, even if he does have a willy,' cheerfully announced Ellie, waving goodbye.

There was no real comeback to that, apart from flushing like a fire engine. I'm also sure those peals of laughter were directed at me.

Bloody women!


	7. Chapter 7

Part Seven: The Devil's Gardens

Farming activity in Frangipani slowed down whilst the preparations detailed above took place. Once they were completed, the pace didn't pick up again; people were too aware that an attack was going to come, no question about "if", only "when". They hung around close to houses and hovercars. Olivia came back next day and reported one flock of refugee children now settled in Blue Byre. The senior women in the garth families, Minerva amongst them, picked others they wanted evacuated. Mrs Corrigan Senior went along, fussing over her travelling bag.

'I don't want to be spread on the fields,' she quavered, being helped into the trailer up a flight of wooden steps, to sit with other elders.

'Mum!' said an exasperated Minerva. 'Behave!' to a chorus of amused sniggers.

I got gestured closer to the trailer by the batty old woman.

'Er – yes?' I asked, politeness personified, wondering what on earth she'd say.

'You're a credit to your gender, young John. Do be careful,' she said, deadly serious.

Not what I'd expected.

Since there were fewer people around on the garth, I set up a few booby-traps. Nothing subtle, just a rusty engine-block suspended over a barn doorway on a chain. Stepping on the floorboards underneath the rusty hulk would cause it to drop, and to make certain the stumpies would step there I stuck a piece of pipe out of the doorway. Just like a shotgun barrel.

Gloria and Faith conspired to make mischief, too, whilst their mum called other garths and cantons, whilst also trying to direct the farm work.

'Flash-freeze tractor fuel?' they said. 'Oh yes we can help with that!' They soon produced two vacuum flasks filled to the brim with a bright blue icy slush. 'The microwave?' Gloria helpfully asked. 'Oh yes easy to use – open this door, put the bottle in, press that button and run.'

'Run very fast,' added Faith. I added two buckets of nails.

Retaining my now-dirty denim jacket, the pockets of which were bulging with magazines for the FN, I caught myself looking to the horizon every ten minutes when outside. The farmers amongst the garth were trying to harvest what crops they could before our expected guests arrived, and dispersing flocks of cattle or sheep out of pens and into the big unfenced beyond. This seemed daft to me, but I was told by those who knew better that the beasts could be rounded up later. Chickens would be difficult to recover, so their coops and roosts were left until the last minute.

Shona, Anne and myself got the job of putting giant apples into equally giant plastic barrels, gently so as to avoid bruising, and then filling the barrel with a cushioning gel that helped preserve them. Empty barrels were stored outside a barn, filled ones stacked at the rear.

'_I_ don't think you're a credit to your gender,' complained Shona. 'Whatever Mad Minnie might say.'

'Stop whinging and open another barrel!' she got ordered by Anne. 'I think he's been very well-behaved, for a man.'

Mock bow from John.

'Ooh, look who fancies him! 'Cos no woman will - ' said Shona cattily, and would have carried on if the gel hose hadn't gotten her across the thighs.

'Whoops,' I said, stoney-faced. 'That disproves the good behaviour.'

Bad language followed from Shona, until Anne up-ended an empty barrel and dropped it over the other woman's head. Shona couldn't get her arms free and hopped frantically around the barn, banging into the walls until she fell over. That enabled her to crawl free and glower at the two of us, who were weak with laughter.

'I don't fancy him,' Anne sternly told Shona.

'I didn't expect her to,' I added, to a nod from my comrade in mischief.

'Did you hear that? He doesn't make passes at the women here, even the ones who've taken Elective. And he's polite. You ought to take - '

Lessons, instructions or happy medicine, we never found out what Anne would have said next. The warning siren began to howl, and I mean howl; the amplified distress of a lost soul in torment would have been easier on the ears.

'Get to the hovercars!' was my shouted instruction, to the backs of two departing women. I slotted a magazine into the FN and doubled back to the Corrigan housing complex, where women scurried around. Dull whooshing sounds could be heard on all sides as bucketfuls of caltrops were shot into the near distance.

Minerva, stern and sombre, stood by the front door, directing women into two of the hovercars. She physically threw away any items they tried to carry into the cars, and her expression stopped any protests dead.

'I need to destroy your tractors,' was my greeting. 'Olivia left me some fuel to do the job.'

She cast a glance over the other farmhouses in the garth, most now alight and burning fiercely, where hover vehicles and giant tractors were driving away at speed, sending up big dust clouds. The two tractors on this farm were the only ones left.

'Go on – we'll leave the third car for you.' She checked her watch. 'They came in lower than before. You've only got two minutes, three at the outside, before they arrive.'

Great. I hoped a hovercar was easy to use. I dashed into the house, found my way to the kitchen freezer and got the three flasks. One went into the microwave, which was crackling and hissing before I got through the door on the way out.

My plan was to get to the hovercar, see if I could operate it and whiz over to the giant tractors parked quarter of a mile away. Quick burst of sabotage, depart at speed, enemy stands around gnashing teeth.

That was my plan. Fate had other, different plans. I nearly tripped over Gloria and Norma when I came out of the house, clutching my bucket of nails. Anne stood over a hovercar, the engine deck propped open, fussing and worrying.

'The - ' began Gloria, before the microwave and tractor fuel blew half the acreage of house behind us into splinters, creating an impressively big fireball and incidentally killing a whole coop full of chickens due to shock.

'Engine's not running,' announced a piqued Norma. She indicated Gloria with a thumb. 'Shona wouldn't stay behind when the other cars were full, so she – Gloria – did.'

'I'll be done in five minutes,' declared Anne.

Very good, except that we didn't have five minutes.

'The tractors?' I asked. Gloria shook her head. Olivia had removed their batteries. There were spares, over in the Gluck's storehouse, a good ten minutes walk away. I jogged over to the two huge machines, parked side by side, and wondered how to set off my dynamite-flavoured ice cream. Neither machine's engine was even warm. They hadn't been run for hours – a consequence of people not working as intently as they normally did.

Expedience, then. I stuck the heavy-duty vacuum flask up the exhaust pipe of the nearer tractor, backed off fifty yards and unslung the FN.

Whirring and whining sounds interrupted as the Sontarans dropped four dumpy little half-spherical spaceships around the garth.

Anne, I hope you're working flat out! I put a five-round burst up the tail-pipe of the tractor, hoping that a tracer would puncture the flask and ignite the fuel.

It did. And how. The whole rear axle, all ten rear wheels and half the chassis blew apart, one massive shredded tyre bouncing back down to earth dangerously nearby. Making do, I shot holes in the tyres of the second tractor, which already looked battered and lop-sided.

The hovercar's engine sounded ragged and uneven when I got back, but the vehicle floated on a cushion of air, which was enough for me. Gloria sat behind the wheel, Norma crouched down beside her and Anne was throwing tools into the seats.

'Get in! Get in!' called Gloria. Norma quietly swore that Shona would pay when they next met.

One of these sleek, open-topped vehicles could accommodate six people and a driver, so there was room enough for me and my bucket of nails. None of the women seemed to appreciate my foresight, especially as the hovercar began to whine alarmingly loudly when it picked up speed. Our progress became nightmarishly slower once we reached the centre of Frangipani and moved uphill. Only the thought that the stumpies would be toiling slowly over caltrops kept panic at bay.

The Sontarans chose this moment to suddenly appear, in the form of two hovercars, each carrying three toadmen, heading into Frangipani from the north, passing the burning Corrigan household.

'No!' blurted Norma. 'That's not fair!'

Booty captured from Holmlea. No wonder they arrived quickly, not having to hop slowly over a collection of spikes. Gloria darted the hovercar into a barn full of tractor attachments, weaving deftly out the other side, and killing our forward motion until we saw what the enemy were doing.

One hovercar curved back to the giant tractors, one shattered, one listing heavily, near the Corrigan household. Good, I gloated. Only let them dismount and move around on foot!

Norma and Anne scanned a full circle, not seeing any more hovercars. Our attackers only had two, then. This must have been true, since we didn't see any Sontarans on foot during the entire engagement. Held up by barbed wire and crows feet, I hope, and hopefully suffering horribly to boot, so to speak.

'We need to ambush them,' I whispered. Why the whisper I don't know, it just seemed appropriate.

'No! Get as far away as possible!' snapped Norma. Since she sat next to Gloria, her opinion counted for more. Our hovercar accelerated away, just not very quickly. The second Sontaran hovercar, moving on higher ground, spotted us instantly and moved to intercept. Norma's advice now consisted of shrieking in fear. Looking daggers at her, I dragged Anne down into the rear of the passenger bay as we whined along, fearing a long-range shot from the stumpies. Norma joined us, falling on top of me, with a peculiarly slack mouth and glazed eyes. Roughly, snarling an insult or two, I pushed her off, and she sprawled down the side of the car, a huge smoking hole in her back. My nostrils caught the stink of cooked human and I gagged.

The living came first. I unceremoniously shoved Norma's body out of the hovercar, which speeded up thanks to reduced weight. I wasn't to know, but the speeding Sontarans behind us hit the body, got knocked sideways and lost valuable seconds regaining our tracks.

'Swerve! Swerve or you'll get shot!' I bawled at a pale-faced Gloria, who threw the hovercar into rapid, unpredictable left and right turns, heading for the south of the garth.

Suddenly she threw the vehicle into a turn so sharp it nearly overturned, smashing into and through a wooden fence and bearing left. Our pursuers came splintering through the fence behind us, failing to turn as sharply and thus riding right over the patch of crows-feet that Gloria knew were positioned there.

Our hovercar managed to hit the left edge of the patch, suffering a few deep scratches in the lifting skirt. The Sontarans, who must have weighed in at the equivalent of ten or twelve humans, massed so much that their hovercar's skirts, trailing on the ground, were ripped apart in zero seconds flat. The car stopped dead, and the driver carried on over the bonnet, landing squarely on several crows feet and impaling himself. Not fatally, since he squirmed like a worm on a hook.

Gloria, still pale-faced and shaking noticeably, drove us into the cover of the only remaining building before we encountered orchards to the south of Frangipani.

'Anne, can you manage to drive? Good. Take over. And wait here a minute.'

I tiptoed over to the corner of our cover, a giant chicken coop, and put my bucket of nails there. Having seen the almighty bang created by my improvised explosive at the tractor rank, I wanted to stop any pursuit right here. Fresh mag in the FN, set sights at fifty metres – damn Belgian metrics! – and wait for the two toadies on foot to appear. Gloria and Anne were warned to keep crouched down.

Fate must have been watching and wondering how to interfere again. Instead of the two footslogging Sontarans, that other appropriated hovercar came racing around the corner, it's approach covered by the noise of our own, not very well hovercar.

Half-breath left eye shut squeeze trigger –

BANG! went the flask full of tractor fuel, sitting amidst a bucket containing five pounds of nails, screws, nuts, bolts, barbed wire barbs and assorted ball bearings. A lot of this hardware went in all directions, but sufficient went in the direction of our Sontaran hovercar to riddle it and both occupants. Their armour doubtless protected them from fatal injury – for proof see Sontaran doing impression of pinned butterfly in crows-foot patch – but the Amalthean hovercar decided to give up the ghost there and then.

Under my canny strategic direction, we swung north-west, then took the north road back by the Corrigan bonfire, since this was the direction our hover-borne attackers had taken and we had gotten rid of them. This kept us clear of the first immobilised hovercar and occupants. It also showed me that my excacvated surprise on the path to Minerva's house had worked.

'Why was that toadman sitting in a hole?' asked Gloria ten minutes later, when it became obvious that we were alive and going to remain so.

'Because he was dead,' I replied, counting out rounds from the first magazine that hadn't been fired. There weren't that many bullets available and what I had must count.

'Did you have to do that with Norma?' she asked, shivering a little.

'Yes,' I replied, not sounding emotional. 'She was dead. We needed to stay alive.'

Anne interrupted before I could upset Gloria any more.

'What happened to that Sontaran by our house? Falling into a hole doesn't kill you.'

No. Falling into a hole where the bottom is lined with five-inch nails, and the sides are lined with five inch nails angled downwards, so you can't pull your impaled foot out, that immobilises you. Your don't-give-a-toss Sontaran comrades, unable to retrieve you without pulling both your legs off or carrying out a major excavation, they're the ones who get fed up and shoot you in the head. That's what kills you. Or perhaps he couldn't take any more pain and shot himself in the head.

'Who cares? A dead toady is a dead toady.'

Gloria commenced weeping silently. At that point I realised that a traumatised teenager shared the hovercar with me, and sighed.

'Gloria? Stop greeting and listen to a horrid hard-bitten man, if you will. Greeting. Weeping. Crying? Well, stop it and pay attention. Normally, the two things that send me into a rage are women or children being abused.'

Anne began to pay attention, too.

'I saw things so vile at the Sontaran mine that my rage barrier has been broken, I think. Show me a toady and I'll kill it without thinking once, and without feeling anything. You could line up every last Sontaran on this planet and I'd be quite able to walk along that line, killing each one with my bare hands. That's how much I hate them.'

No truer word spoken.

'Also, speaking ill of the dead, Norma was stupid. I am a trained and experienced soldier. When I say we need to mount an ambush, it's because that's what we need to do. "Run away and make sitting ducks of us" is a stupid tactic. She could have gotten you and Anne killed.' I didn't add what I thought made a difference – that Norma discounted whatever I said because of my gender.

The sniffling and crying had ended by now.

'I think you're horrid!' sniffed the teenager. Let her think that, if it kept her mind off Norma's death.

'Quite right! I am horrid. There's a big streak of horrid in me. It helps me cope with being a complete swine.'

Inevitably, I had to explain what swine were.

Our protesting hovercar whined, moaned and dragged itself into Blue Byre hours later, welcomed by a flock of anxious women. Shona, learning about the death of her partner, went into hysterics, made worse by not having a body to grieve over, poor cow. Minerva told me off for unhesitatingly dumping the body.

'They were aiming for Gloria,' I told her. 'Kill the driver and capture three live slaves,' which abruptly shut her up, for all the ill-tempered squabbling between her and both daughters. She made sure Shona was kept away from me while we remained at Blue Byre.

A brief worry that more Sontarans in hovercars would appear proved baseless. Nor could they use the giant tractors, both rendered useless by me. When the women returned to Frangipani, they found a dead Sontaran in the spiked pit outside _chez_ Corrigan, and another dead toady still lying impaled in the crows-foot bed, shot in the head. Must have been too much bother to rescue him. Two more Sontarans, resembling pin-cushions, were found rotting in the orchards days later. The guess was that they were the victims of my nail-bucket-bomb, finished off by shock before they could reach their dumpy little spaceships. Hard as it was for the Sontarans to go down in my estimation, since there isn't much below rock-bottom loathing, I really shook my head that that. Abandoning your own wounded; really, it's just not on for a soldier.

Not a bad score, really. Norma killed in exchange for four Sontarans, no women captured, no transport remaining to steal, and to judge from Sontaran blood spattered on the rusty engine dead-fall, at least one other injured stumpy to cope with. Crushed and stained caltrops to the east and west of the garth showed where the attackers ran foul of our surprise plantations. The barbed wire didn't slow them for long, being cut apart and dragged aside to create gaps. They'd learnt that trick from the attack on Holmlea.

Politics in Hollandia caught up with real life, at last. A new Archate got voted-in, and promptly rescinded the order of exile sitting on Tad and I. The Law Officers sent a hovercraft out to Blue Byre for me, and Imogen, who was pleased as a puppy at the prospect of meeting her mother again.

The women of the Corrigan household saw both of us off, even going so far as to present Imogen with a hand-stitched teddy-bear. I got an amber brooch from Minerva, greatly to my surprise.

' "Oh!" Is that all you can say?' she jibed.

' "Oh" pronounced "thank you". What did I do to deserve this?'

Kept my hands off the women, it seemed. The last man out at Frangipani didn't know the meaning of "restraint", "tact" or "NO!". Plus, Anne spoke up on my behalf. She was at the back of the crowd come to wave goodbye, arm draped over another woman her size. They'd hit it off within half an hour of the refugees arriving at Blue Byre, both helping to put up temporary tented accomodation. I caught Gloria's eye.

'No comment?' I asked her, indicating Anne and friend with a jerk of the thumb.

'Not likely. Mum would skin me. And you're still horrid in my opinion.'

Big sigh from me.

'Yes, it comes with the territory. Hopefully, when things in Magellania get back to normal, you won't need large, violent, horrid people.'

Next order of business was to say goodbye to Anne.

'Are you happy?' I asked, a bit archly.

'Oh yes, certainly am!' she chirped.

'Good,' I said, looking hard at the new partner. 'Fond as I am of you, anyone making you unhappy would suffer. Horribly, mind!'

Anne chased me off with a well-aimed cuff to the head. All assembled got a big goodbye wave from the top of the hovercraft steps,and Imogen and myself settled down for a long journey.

'I'll miss them,' said Imogen, sighing and looking out of the hovercraft window.

'Do you know, I think I will, too. I shall now lie down to get a bit of sleep, since it's a long journey.'

'Do I have to?' aked Imogen, doubtless wanting to stare out of the windows for a lot longer.

'Not now, but I snore terribly and you may have difficulty later on.'

She looked at me, not convinced at all.

'Yes, but everyone knows what a terrible fibber you are, Mister John. Teddy and me will look out of the windows'

Damn. Character assasination by six year old!


	8. Chapter 8

Part Eight: Of Comsats and Crashes

When the hovercar stopped, twilight had fallen outside. Imogen lay on the seats opposite, clutching Teddy, sound asleep. The driver, a Law Officer unknown to me, got up and stretched enormously. I shouldered my trusty FN, then ferretted around in the underseat storage bins for a copy of the foil-leaved, laminated gazetteer.

'Here we are. Imogen, your mum is waiting outside.'

"Outside" happened to be the parking stands at the rear of the Law Officer's building. I carried the dozy girl down the steps, to have her snatched from me by Isobella, who wept furiously over the child, and both of them hugged each other as if fearing separation again. The crying mother tried to thank me – me, of all people.

'Hey now, not I! You need to thank the seniors at Frangipani – Minerva Corrigan and Eleutha Gluck, they risked going back to the ruins at Sittangville.'

Also there to greet us were Tad and Clara, the former looking hollow-eyed with fatigue yet faintly pleased with himself, Clara looking - hmm. A touch aggrieved, perhaps.

'Come on, conquering hero. Let us return to the Doctor,' said Tad. Clara nodded, and the pair fell in beside me. Tad returned my .45, holster and boot-knife, so I swapped him the FN.

'There is food in the guest house now. We have gone up in people's estimation,' explained Tad. Clara nodded and kept an eye on me without speaking. It was unusual for her to be so quiet.

Once past the Law Officer's building, I spotted damage done to the Grand Piazza. Scorch marks on the flags, and the shabby bubble-buildings opposite were gone, replaced by a great shallow crater.

'The Sontaran destroyer,' nodded Tad. I muttered a string of expletives under my breath.

'How was your exile?' asked Clara suddenly. I shrugged in return.

'Rather dull. I did quite a bit of hard physical work around the farm, you know, earning my keep. The only excitement came at the end, when the stumpies arrived and we departed.'

'Tad's exile was different,' said Clara, looking at my colleague briefly and fiercely and then back at me. I directed a questioning look at Tad, who turned the corners of his mouth down in embarassment.

'It was terrible. Terrible. Do you know, Poland no longer exists? And being a Catholic earns you the death penalty. It was terrible.' His voice faltered. 'So I, er, found solace with one of the women.'

Tad you roguish rascal!

'She was curious, you see, about - '

'Never mind, never mind, Kapitan Komorowski. The details of your little – ah - fling can remain secret.'

Clara was still looking at me, and the penny suddenly dropped: jealousy! She wanted to know if Captain Walmsley "found solace" with the women at Frangipani.

'Tad,' I said, loading the word with meaning, nodding at the guest house.

'Having now embarassed myself, I shall absent myself. See you inside,' he replied, getting the hint instantly. Quick on the uptake, thankfully.

My green-skinned girlfriend looked expectantly at me, and once again John's Tongue developed intelligence before John's Brain got into first gear.

'Come on, let's get going. I know what you're wondering.'

'No you don't. You're not telepathic,' she retorted.

'Figure of speech,' I said, putting a hand on her shoulder, which she shrugged off. 'I am very fond of you, Clara, and I don't want to upset you. So, with that in mind, I did not chase, embrace, wed, bed, dance or romance any of the women at Frangipani.'

'Okay!' she beamed, threading her arm through mine.

Wait a minute, it was that easy?

'You believe me? Just like that?'

'Yes!' she replied.

Now, if only women back on Earth were that easy to convince, I began, before catching myself, because of course Clara wasn't human. After catching my thoughts, I sent them on their way with a kick in the pants - what the hell, she was as good as human.

'Is it true you put yourself in mortal danger to kill Sontarans with a giant bomb of nails?' she asked.

'Not quite – hang on, how do you know that?'

Radio, of course, radio communication between garths and Hollandia. Remember, John, these people have technology.

We pushed the front door open and were greeted by the Doctor, who looked tired. I didn't realise then what a responsibility he'd taken upon himself and the possible consequences if his planning went wrong.

'Hello, John, pleased to see you. And to hear that your surrogate family didn't come off too badly.'

For a few minutes he asked me about the defensive measures taken at Frangipani, wincing a little when I mentioned flash-frozen tractor fuel. More dangerous and unstable than I realised, according to him.

Part of his acquiescence in getting Tad and I exiled was our ability to help the Amaltheans we'd be exiled with, and also to get a pair of humans sworn to kill Sontarans out of the way when they arrived in Hollandia (except I hoped he wasn't aware of my agreement with Tad), and to split the attention of the Archate.

After that I remembered to pass him the gazetteer.

'There's a selection of photos stuck to the inner back cover, taken when they still had satellites. Dunbavin mentioned them, I thought you might be interested.'

The Doctor's face registered surprise, then realisation, followed by alarm.

'Eureka!' he almost shouted. 'It's all so obvious now! Don't you see?'

He split the spine of the book and flattened it on a table, telling us to look at the photographs. The definition wasn't high, and the viewpoint was isometric, showing what seemed to be the base of Blackpool Tower under construction.

'Eifel Tower?' guesed Tad, giving the Continental version.

'Blackpool Tower,' I added. Privately I doubted that Sontaran renegades would kill thousands and thousands of slaves in order to build a tourist attraction.

'Neither! A tower, most certainly, yet not for display purposes. No, this is a broadcast tower, one constructed on such a large scale that it can broadcast to the entire planet. Look, that building nearby must be the power-plant. Aha, and just visible in it's entrance is the nose cone of a Sontaran cruiser. That's how they intend to power the tower, by using their spaceship's main drive.'

Silence fell. A broadcast tower, eh? The swine! How dare they!

'Broadcasting what?' I asked, recalling Sarah Jane and John Peel. 'Rock music? I hardly think so.'

Sitting on the table edge, stroking his chin with a finger, the Doctor pored over the photographs.

'What indeed,' he mused, mostly to himself. Salamander, yawning and clutching a cup of coffee, entered the big downstairs lounge area.

'John. Tad,' he acknowledged, coming over to have a scan at the photos on the table. 'What's this? It looks like a planetary beacon. Or a hemisphere broadcast array.'

'Could it be for sending a threat? "Obey us or the hostages die"?' I asked. Snap! went the Doctor's fingers. He produced paper and pen, sketched the outline of the tower, extrapolated the completed version, did a quick schematic of Amalthea with diameter, equator, atmosphere and temperature measurements from memory, then scribbled out a series of equations and notes. When he stopped, minutes later, he hed an air of grim satisfaction.

'Well done, John – your first two words of the threat were correct. "Obey us" and no more. This tower, if completed and powered-up to broadcast, will transform the entire population of Amalthea into mindless, obedient Sontaran slaves.'

Oh dear. A broadcast version of the Sontaran slave-creating conditioning process, able to turn two and a half million people into drooling vegetables instantly.

'These photographs are old, Doctor,' said Tad. 'Their tower must be nearing completion.'

'Why not use satellites? Much more efficient,' put in Salamander, prosaically scoffing a sandwich.

The Doctor shook his head.

'Human technology simply isn't able to cope with this kind of signal, while the Sontarans lack the resources to create sophisticated satellites of their own. This broadcast tower is a compromise that might work, I'm sorry to say.'

My imagination reconstructed the scenario to date. The Sontaran renegades arrive in Magellenia and discover humans living there. The mono-gender female civilisation on Amalthea seems to be the weakest, with no armed forces and little to no weaponry, but lots of iron ore and trace elements for mining. The stumpies land, kidnap and process their slaves, snaring the Archate along the way. End plan is to have a planet consisting of two and a half million slaves, who live or die at the slightest whim of their masters. Along the way they retrieve Salamander from the time-space vortex, and hope to entrap a Time Lord in their "Doctor"-baited ambush. As a sub-plot, they also want to lay their mis-shapen three-fingered hands on the Rutan who displayed symptoms of individuality.

Nobody could stop them. Until we arrived.

'Destroying the Amalthean satellites was a major mistake,' commented Salamander, chewing his sandwich. 'It bespeaks haste and imprudence.'

He needn't sound so sorry for them.

'I wonder, I wonder,' mused our Time Lord, tapping his lips with a forefinger. 'How do we know the satellites were destroyed?'

Officer Dunbavin told me so; using the guest-house's microwave link, the Doctor called up the Law Officers and asked them. Finished with his call, he pointed at me.

'Military judgement, John. How would you go about destroying that broadcast tower?'

Good question, long answer.

'Meaning you want to know what the stumpies expect? Well, it's a very large structure, so you'd need a large explosion to destroy it. Not only that, it's mostly open girderwork, which is rather difficult to destroy with any explosion merely nearby. In my opinion, given our lack of large, guided missiles with warheads in excess of a ton – I think you'd need to get access to the tower itself, in order to place large quantities of explosives physically upon it If you can't get hold of proper demolition charges then you'd be talking several tons of improvised ones.'

Which would be an impossibility. Tad's answer amounted to flying a helicopter loaded with explosives into the tower, which was even more impossible.

'Frankly, Doctor, I think it's impossible. It would take a large armed force, and one armed with forty-second century technology, to assault that site and take control of the tower, and a force that large would be able to kill or capture the Sontarans anyway. We don't have a fraction of the people here to manage it.'

'Could we ask Philandros to send us an armed force?' asked Salamander.

'No. It would take too long to arrive, and risk interception en route. No, we need to deal with this threat now and with what resources we have,' answered the Doctor.

Sensible reply. The resources we had didn't seem sufficient to dismantle a single girder of that tower. That was all I knew; the Doctor knew differently.

'Look, I know we could all do with a rest, but it's important that I find out about the Amalthean's satellite network, and if any of it survives. That means a visit to their Communication Satellite Terminal here in Hollandia.'

I shrugged.

'I've just spent ten hours sleeping. I'm up for anything you suggest.'

Salamander cried off. He'd spent all day in the Assembly, being granted diplomatic status, then honorary sisterhood, and then getting elected to the Archate. Tad agreed to go, only to be gently rebuffed by the Doctor and told to go lie down for a few hours. The remaining three of us walked across the Grand Piazza, then into wide boulevards beyond that were new to me, and then into an area of anonymous buildings, boxy and functional, many sporting large antenna arrays. Further down the access road, towards the Piazza, a smashed building lay collapsed partly into the street, victim of the brief Sontaran bombardment.

'Voila. The CST,' indicated the Doctor, indicating a large double-doorway, with a plaque that on closer inspection said "Communication Satellite Terminal". The doors were locked, there were no lights on inside and no lights behind any of the windows to be seen above us.

Thanks to the sonic screwdriver, it took us about ten seconds to get inside, without having to worry about alarm systems either – the Amaltheans not being big on breaking and entering or burglary. Firstly I got sent to the basement to locate the isolator for incoming power and turn it on. Creepy, being down in the dusky basement of a strange building, utterly deserted or so you hoped. With the handily labelled "Incoming Power" lever turned to on, lights came back on in the CST and the Doctor could begin examining.

The first floor hall had what the Doctor was looking for – he hadn't informed Clara or I what was going on yet – in the shape of dozens of large monitor screens arrayed on each wall, a chair set in front of a control panel under each screen. None of the screens were active. In fact the whole place smelt musty and unused. More tables sat in the middle of the room, many covered with plastic dust-sheets.

'Abandonded when their satellites were all destroyed?' half-asked, half-stated Clara. The Doctor nodded.

'My best guess is that the Sontarans neutralised most of the satellites they found in orbit around Amalthea as soon as they arrived here. A few survived, perhaps the ones on long, elliptical circumpolar orbits, until they too were detected and neutralised.'

He carefully chose the word "neutralise" instead of "destroy". His implication was that the stumpies might not have blown up all the Amalthean satellites.

'You think they kept a couple of satellites intact, orbiting as before, just working for the Sontarans now,' I ventured. 'Give them a rudimentary eye-in-the-sky ability.'

'That's my working hypothesis. It would explain how they knew the Law Officers were going to assault their landing site so exactly and precisely. The trick is to determine if my hypothesis is correct, which I will begin straight away.'

The trick was to power up each control panel, then check the status of the satellite it monitored and controlled. There were at least forty stations to check, and it took me ages to operate even the more basic controls, while Clara and the Doctor simply waltzed away with them. Once the monitor had come on, the control panel needed to be activated, and an attempt made to contact the dedicated satellite. "NO SIGNAL" came up on the five I managed, before the Doctor gave a loud "Ha!" of triumph.

Naturally I beetled over to have a scan. The monitor he stood in front of had the message "SIGNAL RECIPROCAL INTERRUPT" halfway up the screen, and a pulsing green line along the bottom of the screen. He chased me away to other monitors and the checking continued.

Eventually all forty five monitors and control panels had been checked, revealing four that gave the "Interrupt" message. One of these displays lacked the pulsing green line at the screen bottom; the Doctor ignored that one. Out of power, according to Clara: the satellite was still up there, not responding to messages from the ground and not sending any back, either, and the internal power plant had died.

So that left three satellites the Sontarans hadn't destroyed. Amidst the maze of horizontal tables and screens in the middle of this floor was an especially large table, about fifteen feet square, which the Doctor headed for. It had a three-dimensional display of Amalthea set inside, a kind of projected image that the Doctor managed to set rotating.

'Can I ask at this point what you're doing, Doctor?' I asked, having been dying to ask for a couple of hours already.

'Hmm? Oh, yes, sorry, didn't I explain? I want to see whereabouts those satellites are positioned in orbit. Let's see – Clara, read off the satellite classification on the control panel, will you.'

' "Ocean Weather Watch Athena Two".'

'Thank you, just wait a minute. Athena Two, Athena Two – oh, here we are.' A press of a button caused a bright blue dot to flash in orbit around Amalthea, another button press showed the satellite's orbit, remaining static in position above a single point on the planet's surface.

'Aha. Look at that,' burbled the Doctor, taking it for granted that I knew what he meant. 'Geostationary, but not over the ocean. Athena Two has been repositioned to spy on Hollandia.'

Unconsciously, I flexed my back muscles. The Doctor caught the movement from the corner of his eye and grinned.

'A spy in the sky, eh? Don't worry, John, it's image resolution won't be very high. It was designed to detect large-scale weather patterns, not small moving objects. Next!'

' "Solar Observatory Helios.'

The corresponding flashing blue dot was very far from Amalthea this time, in a great lop-sided orbit.

'No good. Too far away – that orbit looks like a five year one. Probably why the Sontarans merely jammed the signal. Next!'

' "Northern ComSat Link Eagle Three".'

This blue dot sat in a low orbit, one that took it across the whole Amalthean surface in a criss-cross of lines.

'Bingo. We're in business!' declared the Doctor.

Oh good. Even if I had no idea what kind of business we were in. An arm draped itself over my shoulder and Clara stood next to me.

'Clever, isn't he?'

'I already know that. Any idea what he plans to do?' I asked, quietly. Not quietly enough to fool the Doctor.

'I am going to attempt piracy amongst the heavens, young man! Now, please be quiet whilst I carry out some calculations.'

Clara tugged me away to a corner, taking advantage of the seclusion to ask questions that had undoubtedly been fermenting since walking into the guest house.

'Where did you get that jewel? Did one of the women give it to you? Were they very fond of you? What were they like? Were they more attractive then me? - ' and the stream would have carried on if I hadn't put a finger on her lips.

'Shh! One at a time. I got it from the whole of Frangipani, I think for helping to make sure they all got away from the Bucketheads. "Bucketheads" – what the children nick-named the Sontarans. They weren't fond of me, more like a bit scared and wary at first, and then resigned and watchful later. The last man out there, you see, had been an Andromachean, and the Andromachean males behaved very badly on Amalthea.'

I lost the thread there, before recalling.

'What were they like? Just people, really. Some nice, some nasty, most of them in-between.' And the crunch question! 'Of course they weren't more attractive than you. No makeup and dull clothes, you see. They certainly didn't try to impress a mere male, especially not Fat John the Human.'

Clara wrinkled her shapely green nose.

'My vocabulary is better now. I meant "large", not "fat".'

Big John is my nickname, aptly enough.

'And now, Clara, my sweet, you can answer a question.'

She paid close attention.

'You're a Rutan. You can alter your appearance to any form you choose. I, on the other hand, am a human. This is what I'll look like forever, or until middle-age spread gets me.'

Big open-faced nod from Clara.

'So, why do you like me?'

Like a coquettish schoolgirl, she sat back on a table and swung her legs.

'You don't know?' she teased.

'You two! Can you stop canoodling and help!' called the Doctor, impatiently. Inwardly I groaned, another question begun and not answered after me getting up the courage to ask it.

Our tetchy mentor had abandoned the display table and now sat at a computer screen, masses of data streaming by on the display, pages of scribbled maths formulae scattered on the desktop and floor.

'John, I need you to get back down to the basement and see if you can increase the power coming into this building. If you can, do so in five minutes from now.' I checked my watch and left running.

How the hell did I manage to increase power? Venturing beyond the cubbyhole with the junction box and Incoming Power lever, I came across a securely locked door. Very secure, a resounding kick didn't shift it at all. A couple of rounds from the .45 smashed the lock apart sufficiently for me to get inside a dark room that smelt of dust and oil and sounded muffled and full. Scrabbling around revealed a lightswitch, which revealed a couple of big generators, for "Emergency Use Only". There were only a few controls, contained in a locked plastic box at the front of each piece of machinery. A good hack with the knife and I got into the box and pressed the big green button in each.

Coughing, rumbling, clunking and then whirring, the two generators came to life and began generating. A bit before the five minute deadline, perhaps, but I reasoned they'd take a little while to generate electrical power. The shielded bulbs in this dingy room seemed to glow brighter within seconds of the big plant starting up, revealing cobwebs a-plenty.

My job was done, so I headed back to the first floor, where the Doctor now sat at the control console for Eagle Three, the signal satellite. Above him, the screen flashed and danced in patterns of static.

'Excellent work, John! Just the energy boost I needed. Now, look at that. What do you think!'

'A sootball fight in a coalmine?' I guessed.

'Silly! That's the satellite signal!' scolded Clara.

At that moment, with a fine sense of theatrics, the screen cleared into a complex scrolling pattern of lines and dots, set against a background of graphs.

The Doctor rubbed his hands together in delight.

'Perfect! Now - '

'Excuse me, but could someone explain this to me?' I asked, plaintively.

The Doctor rubbed his nose and darted a glance back at the big display table.

'Very well - quickly, then. I wrote a computer program that will over-ride the Sontaran control of Eagle Three – I hope! To manage an over-ride initially we needed to boost our signal and increase the gain, or the new programme wouldn't have worked – that was your increased power – and this display now indicates that we have control of the satellite.'

Coloured traces crawled and scrawled across the various graphs. The Doctor gave up his seat and headed off for the controls that operated Athena Two.

'This is more complicated. I need to piggy-back the signal from Eagle Three to Athena and back again, and then re-integrate it for display.'

Above us, the monitor screen began to flash and strobe, throwing up monochrome images of clouds or continental land-masses at irregular intervals. That, I guessed, was what Eagle Three was detecting, filtered via Athena.

'I'm going back to the Eagle Three station. Clara, I want you to call out azimuth - '

Giant bells went off in my head. At least, that's what it felt like. ClangClangClangClangBangBangBangBangBang, resounding around my head for whole minutes, turning my legs to jelly and brain to sponge. When I could focus again, past the taste of blood in my mouth and the burning in my throat, I could see the Doctor leaning against a table. I got upright from all-fours, half-noticing the vomit I'd left on the floor.

'No sudden moves!' cautioned the Doctor, calmly. His eyes rolled in one direction and I saw Clara, back in her native Rutan form, jerkily moving towards the Time Lord.

'Killthedoctorkillthedoctorkillthedoctor,' she bubbled, in her electronic monotone, moving towards him from the control station. 'Killthedoctorkillthedoctor.' Her tentacles writhed across the floor.

Wiping my chin, dribbling blood and spittle, I staggered in front of the Doctor.

'Careful, John! The Sontarans have activated their control tower,' whispered the Doctor. 'That must be their primary command – kill me.'

'Killthedoctorkillthedoctor,' droned Clara, edging closer.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

'Clara,' I said, spreading my arms wide. 'Don't you recognise me?'

The giant flourescent green gooseberry stopped advancing.

'John! You are John. Please – please get out of the way. I have to kill the Doctor.'

'No you don't,' I tried. 'You have to help him, not kill him.'

One of those tentacles writhed forward, contacting my foot. I braced myself for an electric shock, only for nothing to happen.

'I don't want, but I have to. John! Get out of the way!' burbled the strange electronic modulation from Clara, accompanied by a second tentacle.

'Are we friends? Are you my girlfriend?' I tried, aware of blood slowly dripping from my nose.

'Yes,' burbled the big green blob, sending another tentacle around my feet.

'The Doctor is my friend, too. How will you feel as a friend if you kill one of my friends?'

Clara lashed back and forth in torment for the space of several heartbeats. Finally she came to a decision, and not a good one. An invisible force from outer space hit me all over and threw me aside, to end up lying next to a dusty computer table.

Ouch, was as far as my thought processes went. A green flash assaulted my eyes and if it hadn't been so painful where I lay I might have passed out.

The Doctor hauled me upright, single-handedly. Strong fella, that chap, deceptively so.

'Well-played, John. You've bought us valuable time.'

Whilst I'd been trying to fend off Clara, the Doctor had pulled together the anti-stastic dust sheets from abandoned computer tables, tying them together into a large single sheet and throwing it over Clara. Earthed, she now lay quiescent under the plastic canopy, back in human form.

'I'm so happy about that,' I gasped. 'My last moments flashed before my eyes, you know.'

'Faugh!' he exclaimed, striding back to the Athena control table. 'She could have killed you ten times over if she wanted to. You got a mild shock, that's all.'

My knees didn't quite agree. Nor my nose, still leaking.

'What knocked me silly, then?'

'Quiet, please! I need to re-orient this satellite.'

The Sontarans, obviously, had powered-up their broadcast tower. I realised that. What I didn't know was that the side-effects of it's operation were haemorrhage and death for half-a-percent of the target population, thanks to crude application of watts over pico-volts. My symptoms came particularly severe; most Amaltheans suffered less. Clara lay still and quiet under the plastic sheeting,

Sulkily sitting in silence perched on a computer table, I watched the Doctor dash between the Eagle Three and Athena controls, which caused a gradual shift in the perspective and display to be seen on the monitors.

Gee, great. Television of the forty-second century.

Ragged clouds vanished abruptly on the monitor, and a great flat expanse of landscape unrolled beneath the satellite. The colours looked strange to my eyes, almost like a colour-film negative.

'Infra-red with false-colour enhancement,' said the Doctor to me between dashes. 'Tell me when you see the broadcast tower.'

That wasn't difficult, the damn thing put out so much power it was visible from whatever height the satellite was at, as a pulsing white glow on the horizon.

Wait a minute, I told myself, finally realising. We know the tower's complete, because it's sending out that signal. Why do we need to spy on it?

'Doctor - ' I began, to be forestalled by an upheld hand.

'Hang on, I need to work out this declination. Okay, yes, I know why you're asking. Athena Two is much more massive, at least two and a half times larger than Eagle Three. Is that perspective changing at all? Do keep an eye on it, there's a good chap. Yes, over twice the mass, but next to no fuel left for attitudinal correction.'

Quite! This must be how the Brig feels, out of his depth with someone who only verbalises a fraction of his thought-processes.

The big glowing blob denoting the broadcast tower had moved into the middle distance. Nothing altered for several long minutes, except that the glowing blob glowed even harder. Could it be getting bigger? No. The satellite must be getting closer, which didn't seem right and proper, since satellites sat in orbits whirling above us in the heavens, and didn't get close to earth, or Amalthea.

'Not only that, but I have to contend with the probability of the Sontarans realising that their hijacked satellite has in turn been hijacked. Whoops! There we go!'

The image on the monitor shivered, broke into static and reformed.

'Per ardua ad terra,' muttered the Doctor, mangling an RAF motto. 'My program is resisting Sontaran attempts to re-assert control.'

The glowing blob got larger, and began to display detail, resolving into a large spike.

'Damn! You're going to fly the satellite into the broadcast tower!' I finally realised. This might appear slow, but those damn bells had left my brains seriously jumbled. My nose had only just stopped bleeding.

'I think the technical term is "de-orbit", John,' corrected the Doctor. 'And in fact I am aiming the terminal impact point a good kilometre short of the tower.'

Those gears ground slowly around in my mind. Satellite. Sontarans. Broadcast tower. Hijack.

'Errr – Doctor? Doctor – if the Sontarans know that you're fiddling with what they think of as _their_ satellite, and they have legions of slaves here in Hollandia, might they not try to interfere?'

My matter-of-fact intrusion on his academic mental landscape impacted on the Doctor with all the effect of a howitzer shell.

'Good grief! John, you're absolutely right! You need to get down to the entrance and warn me if anyone tries to gain access.'

I half-congratulated myself on stealing a mental advance on the Doctor, before cold hard reality interrupted – our electric lady killer was hors de combat, there were only six rounds left in my pistol and this building didn't lend itself to defence in any way. The entrance was two large glass doors, and the first floor access was via a wide stone stairway.

Tip-toeing as best as my bulk allows, I got down to the entrance doors and looked left and didn't bother to look right, because a crowd was making its way over the rubble-strewn street and collapsed building nearer the Piazza. Thanks to the purple twilight, I spotted two Sontarans leading the crowd, silhoutted atop the pile of dead building. Not leading very quickly, more sort of limping at speed.

Oh – they would be the prisoners released from the Law Office, guaranteed. Now leading a whole horde of Amalthean slaves determined to kill the Doctor.

Great! Just great! How the bloody hell do I end up in situations like this? That clinging atmosphere of farce and tragedy had vanished for the moment.

'Company approaching, Doctor,' I warned him, bounding back up the stairs and making my nose bleed again.

Damn this place was wide open! All the Bucketheads needed to do was kick the doors in and walk up the stairs into the first floor mezzanine.

'Can you keep them busy for a little longer?' he asked. 'Eagle Three is down to fifty kilometres.'

'Can I keep them busy – with what! Throw desks at them?'

The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I grabbed a desk and heaved it over, landing it worktop-down on the floor with an incredible crash (the Doctor never so much as blinked). Heave-ho, I grabbed the legs and pushed, creating a scraping and squealing as bad as scraping your nails down a blackboard. The desk went clattering down the steps to end up in front of the doors. Instant barricade.

A good idea, John, but it was hard work and my legs were still wobbly from that brain-boggling attack. Aha! Brain in second gear, I picked up a fire-extinguisher and sprayed foam on the floor all the way from the inner hall to the steps. The second desk almost glided over the lubricant, pitched itself end-over-end down the steps and joined the first. I added another desk, and a fourth and fifth, sweating heavily and feeling fifty years old. More spray from the fire extinguisher, and another two desks joined the collection in the lobby, which now looked awkward and fully occupied by desks.

A shotgun went off outside, shattering the glass in the entrance doors, at which point I went back into the computer hall at the best speed I could manage, stopping to get some more fire extinguishing equipment.

'Our guests have arrived,' I gasped to the Doctor.

'Just a little longer,' he cheerfully announced. My comments were not repeatable and more a growl than speech.

Deep breath, John. I stood a computer table on end, making a seven-foot barrier. Not bad. Smashing and curses in Sontaran could be heard coming from the lobby as the intruders tried to climb over the temporary barrier there.

If one barrier was good, how about more? I stood another desk on it's end, and another. This partially-shielded the Doctor at his control station from anyone walking into the hall. More desks followed on end, creating an angular forest of upright desks, me feeling too exhausted by now to do more than sweat and swear.

The two Sontarans came stumpily into the hall, one favouring his leg, the other with an arm in a canvas sling. Both wore helmets, and behind them the clatter of desks being pulled apart warned me that a horde of killer slaves were about to arrive.

Putting my shoulder to the underside of a desk, I gave it a good hard shove. It fell over, and hit another desk that fell over in turn, making the Bucketheads dodge aside. That gave me long enough to spray fire-extinguisher foam over the nearest Sontaran's helmet, then dart back under cover. The sprayed Buckethead took off his helmet, covered by his friend with a rheon pistol, which demonstrated the ability to practically cut my protective desk in two with a single shot.

I clattered and rolled away across the floor, behind the other, more normally arrayed desks and tables, pursued by a tremendous explosion as a computer blew apart.

'Bullseye!' crowed the Doctor, which was followed by a chorus of groaning and wailing from the stairs. I rolled behind the big square three-dimensional display table and risked a glimpse over the top. Buckethead One had his helmet off, to clear away the foam. This was awkward for him, with one arm in a sling. Buckethead Two, the one wielding a rheon pistol, now faced toward the stairs, covering a threat I couldn't see from here.

Fire-axe in my right hand, Icrawled back around the table and aimed left-handed at matey's unprotected head, resting my arm on the table edge to get a more stable firing position. I give him points for speed, he dropped the helmet instantly and tried to pull a rheon pistol from his holster. He wasn't quick enough, the range was short, the lighting good, and I got him above his right eye. Down he went.

Buckethead Two whirled around, so I got under cover before he cut me in two with that ray gun of his.

'John!' called the Doctor, mingling elation and worry in his voice. 'The broadcast tower has been destroyed!'

'Gar!' swore the Sontaran. He shot a hole in the display table, then decided to go for the Doctor. I popped up long enough to shoot him in his back. The bullet knocked him off his balance, his shot went wide and blew a great hole in a monitor screen, sending a spray of sparks clear across the room. He swung back at me, I presume, since I was now rolling at floor level well away from my firing position.

Stumpy finally used his wits and jumped on a desk top, getting a better view of the entire hall, the better to shoot big holes in me. He got as far as levelling his pistol before the desk top collapsed under his weight, leaving him trapped and writhing in the middle, his gun dropped and bounced off to who knows where.

That was my opening. I came leaping across the desktops myself, gun back in holster, swinging the fire-axe overhead and bringing it down on Buckethead's helmet across the visor with force enough to strike sparks from the metal.

Sturdy fire-axes with a sound handle don't break easily, so I must have really walloped him for the head to break loose. To judge from the squawk Buckethead made, the helmet didn't protect him totally – my guess at hitting the narrow visor was that it would be the least-armoured bit of the helmet.

Matey proved to have plenty of fight left in him. He ripped the desk apart and came at me, staggering a bit on his gammy leg, which I hit with the fire-cudgel, provoking a howl.

'No taunts about my puny weapons?' I jeered at him, managing to dance away from his clumsy shuffle. 'Mohammed Ali would wince to see you. Pathetic!'

I wondered where the Doctor had gotten to by now. All I needed was a distraction from another quarter and my trusty club would dance disco on his probic vent. Or, if he was rash enough to take off his helmet, I'd shoot him in the eye.

Buckethead didn't give up, pulling out a tetrahedral dagger and lunging at me, which he had to stop within seconds, his breath coming sharply through the helmet mouthpiece. Instead he tried to box me in, which didn't work when I could jump onto and off the desks. Not that I wasn't pretty knackered myself by now, but pride and anger would not let me stop. Besides, taunting Sontarans is such easy malicious fun.

Just to keep my aim in, I picked up what looked like a telephone with an embedded miniature television screen, swung it by the wiring and smacked Buckethead on the helmet with it. That annoyed him, I could tell by the number of snarled "Gars!" that came afterwards. Snapping the wires off, I carried on swinging and hitting whilst retreating until the device broke apart, by which time my moving, snarling target was barely moving forward.

Suddenly, the dead Sontaran, lying dead on the floor, being dead and still, stopped being dead, sitting upright with a loud groan.

'Really, John! Stop playing with that wretched creature and stun him,' snapped the Doctor, striding back into the hall, only stopping to swiftly kick the probic vent of the previously-dead Sontaran, who promptly collapsed backwards in a heap again.

Stun him? Great idea, but how! Tired and injured the toadman might be, he was still wearing bulletproof armour. Bulletproof armour – bulletproof, not kinetic-energy proof. Aha.

Clever John backed up a little more, switching the fire-club to my left hand, holding the .45 in my right, waiting until the Sontaran tried to move forward in pursuit.

'Pah! Foolish human creature! Your feeble weapon is no threat to advanced Sontaran armour!' he boasted, the effect spoilt by the great wheezing breaths he drew in between every third word.

I needed to be accurate with this shot – it got him in the shin, low down, and knocked him off-balance before his other foot landed. Another shot on the ankle and he fell forward, heavily and awkwardly, making the floor shake when he hit.

'Gravity one, Sontaran nil!' I shouted at him. 'Who feels foolish now?'

He shook a bit himself, when I started to whack his probic vent with my bright red club. I doubt he was feeling the pain and reacting, it was more likely simply the energy I transmitted through beating his unconscious body.

'That's enough,' sternly ordered the Doctor, removing the big red club from my grip, giving me a warning look.

'You bet,' I gasped, sitting down gracelessly on a table.

Whilst I sat and panted, a bloodied, sweaty blob, Amalthean women were brought staggering into the hall, to be seated wherever a space could be found. Many were Law Officers, carrying shotguns, knives or the odd rheon weapon. The Doctor, as flatteringly explained to me later, deemed me able to deal with both Sontarans on my own, whilst he went to check on the now freed women.

The first Sontaran, the one I'd shot, proved to possess a skull thick enough to stop the bullets from a Colt .45. A call to Nick Munro for some special armour-piercing ammo might be an idea when I got back. The more aware ladies amongst the crowd in the hall tied our uninvited guests up, nice and tight.

'Ladies – oh, and gentleman – may I show you what the Sontarans have been doing with the minerals their slaves mined at such human cost?' announced the Doctor like a ringmaster. Taking our assent for granted, he fiddled around with the controls of a monitor screen and projected the final fall to Amalthea of Eagle Three across all the displays around the hall. Firstly the broadcast tower appeared on the horizon as a white, pulsing mass.

'A broadcast tower – constructed of girders manufactured from the ore that Amalthean slaves mined,' declared the Doctor. 'Designed to transmit a controlling impulse to every human on this planet.'

The display sped up and the shapeless white mass became a definite spiked shape, broad at the base, tapering to the top. A large boxlike structure nearby came into view. Behind were other spindly shapes denoting the Sontaran Valt destroyers.

'That building is the power hall, housing the Sontaran cruiser. You can see how large the tower is by comparison, several hundred metres tall at least.'

The tower loomed larger and larger and shifted upwards in perspective, Eagle Three seemingly aiming for the ground beneath the tower , until the picture wobbled badly, seconds before the viewpoint shifted abruptly upwards.

'I anticipated the Sontarans regaining control of their satellite, and attempting to boost it away from the tower,' explained the Doctor. 'So I deliberately used a lower-declination de-orbit. The Sontarans merely shifted the satellite into a direct collision course.'

The mass of girders constituting the broadcast tower got closer, then narrower, as the satellite aimed for the upper part of the structure, where the girderwork had the least gaps. A pair of interlocked girders rushed suddenly at the satellite –

- and then the picture was gone. Later that morning we got pictures from Athena Two, showing the girder missing it's top fifty metres, and a tangle of other material collapsed around the base.

'That's when the Sontaran control over you was broken.'

A quiet murmur of discussion broke out as the ex-slaves talked about their predicament, and about the women who collapsed and died from cerebral haemorrhages. This was the first I'd heard about the symptoms of over-driven Sontaran broadcasts, although the Doctor nodded grimly, unsurprised.

With a great deal of rustling and crumpling, Clara stood up, wrapped in opaque plastic non-static sheeting for the sake of modesty – her human clothes were destroyed when she reverted to Rutan form.

'How interesting,' mused the Doctor, joining me in seeing how she was. 'She adopted human form whilst unconscious. Fascinating!'

Clara rested her head on my shoulder and snivelled miserably, both as a result of being hammered by the Sontaran broadcast and also, she confessed, at stunning me rigid.

'Chin up, old girl,' I tried, adopting Harry Sullivan's cheery line in chit-chat. 'Shifting the desks was worse. I feel rather wrung-out.'

Various women donated bits and pieces of clothing and Clara was able to drop the plastic sheeting.

'Er – hello?' asked one of the survivors, tapping my elbow gently and recoiling when I rounded on her. Dripping with sweat, grime, blood and bits of smashed desk, computer and phone, I looked a fright.

'Yes?' I asked, having slumped onto a desk.

'There were two other Sontarans, you know,' she whispered, almost cowering back.

The only other target the Bucketheads might have tried was the guest house, since the TARDIS would shrug off any attack they made. At my insistence, we took rheon pistols borrowed from the Law Officers in the ComSat Terminal and jogged over. Dizzy, concussed-looking women were standing about in the Grand Piazza, wondering what they had just endured and what to do now. Bodies, either of those who passed out – no, that wasn't right, they'd been shot dead by those Sontaran ray guns.

Not a good start – our front door lay inside, smashed off the hinges. Furniture had been tossed around, and several of the risers on the stairs were fractured, which meant the stumpies had been up to the first floor.

Of Salamander, no sign, whilst Tad lay unconscious and bloody on a bed. The Doctor rapidly checked for a pulse, then breathing, then pupil dilation.

'The Sontaran broadcast. It seems to have hit harder here than at the CST. I think we must have been partly-shielded by the building structure.'

I dropped onto the bed, making the springs creak madly. "Partly-shielded"? It had felt like the Devil dancing on my brains in hobnail boots. Poor Tad, if he got it worse than me.

'How bad is he?'

'It looks worse than it is. He's still not going to feel well when he comes to.'

Clara went up and down the house, then outside, and came back with news that the Sontarans had marched Salamander away, witnessed by the women outside. Anyone failing to get out of their way was promptly shot, as was anyone who looked like interfering. Within minutes of Salamander's abduction one of their dumpy little ships took off from behind the Law Offices, where they had been stored.

'Doctor, I really have come to dislike these Sontarans. They've just killed another two thousand Amaltheans in trying to enslave the entire population. I want my elephant gun.'

True, it didn't blow big holes in the stumpies, but it did kill them at a distance.

'Wicked bad,' agreed Clara.

The Doctor sighed.

'The real reason, the prime motivator for coming to Amalthea, was to release Salamander. Now he's been recaptured. I blame myself, really,'

'Don't!' blurted Tad, vomiting blood onto the bedclothes from the recovery position. He wiped his face clean with a shakey hand and struggled upright, clutching his head and groaning.

'Holy Mother, what hit me? A concussion weapon?'

One potted explanation later he shook his head when told that Salamander had been abducted.

'He went willingly! He pleaded with them to take him, or he'd be returned to Earth for trial and execution for his crimes.'

Like I said, once a rotter, always a rotter. Not a gentleman, so you couldn't trust him. Still, pleading to be taken away by the stumpies perplexed me. Between him and the Doctor, a quiet retirement to Magellania seemed on the cards for Salamander.

'He offered to be a substitute for the Doctor, but a willing one this time, able to convince anyone that he really _was_ the Doctor. After spending so long with you, he felt capable of managing a persuasive act.'

The Doctor tutted crossly. Me, I'd have been breaking things. Travelling across two thousand years, risking death or injury, the Doctor already having been beaten silly, and this was how the effing twod repaid us. Oh, but it would be a difficult decision, deciding who to kill first!

One possibility, that the Bucketheads might mount another bombardment of Hollandia, or smaller communities closer to the Sontaran encampment, did occur to me. I mentioned it to the Doctor, who simply pursed his lips and nodded. More of his wheels within wheels in motion, I supposed, and left to have a shower. Cleaned up, I certainly looked better, or less frightening. Tad got to his feet and shuffled pale-faced to the bathroom, swilling his mouth ou, turningt the basin pink. Clara came and sat next to me on a threadbare couch in the downstairs lounge. She cried on my shoulder again, a combination of anger at Salamander, frustration that the Sontarans had escaped and the remains of her guilt at attacking me. The Doctor caught us in this pose and smiled in quiet amusement, passing Clara a salt cellar for an unfathomable reason.

'Thank you for not being horrid,' she said. 'I might have killed you. Or the Doctor.'

She got a comforting hug.

'Come on, come on, this adventure's all but over. I expect we'll be moving on soon, and you need to cheer up.'

Wrong, John, verrrry wrong! Fallible, that's me. The Doctor, too, for once. He swept through the guest house, very obviously searching and not finding.

'I hid it!' I joked, only to get an unamused glare.

'Most amusing. Have you seen my electronic suppressor? Or the audio over-ride projector?'

The magic stick and big silver golf ball. No, I hadn't. Nor had Clara.

'How annoying!' complained the Doctor. Not to me, I was more bothered about a Sontaran meson cannon blowing up Hollandia and us along with it. Having felt the unpleasant crawling of skin at the back of my neck when the only worry was a Sontaran-controlled satellite, I now had an even more unpleasant feeling, that of having a bullseye painted on my head.

Tad managed to lurch downstairs, and dropped into a chair. Taking pity on him, I dug around in the kitchen cupboards and made him a robust sandwich two inches thick. He looked more substantial and less ready to depart this life after that sandwich.

'The Doctor is still searching upstairs,' he informed us. 'Would it be possible to have a cup of coffee?'

I sighed exagerratedly and went back into the kitchen to find what passed for milk and sugar. The wonderfully-advanced kettle boiled water in less than half a second, even six or seven pints, so I set that off first and rinsed out a cup.

'Er – hello?' asked a tinny voice, making me jump and drop the cup. There was a radio in the kitchen, which wasn't turned on – Amalthean radio broadcast nothing but the spoken word, plays, documentaries, novels, all worthy stuff guaranteed to send you to sleep, and only for a limited period morning and afternoon.

'I'm presuming that someone can hear me,' continued the radio that wasn't switched on, making the hairs on my forearms stand up.

'Hang on,' I muttered to myself. 'That sounds like Salamander. Doctor!'

He came downstairs in a flash when I carried the radio into the lounge, still broadcasting Salamander's voice.

'You must have realised by now that I have the Doctor's wonderful technical toys. Sorry, but I just couldn't resist taking them. They also give me a bargaining chip.'

'Why does he need a ship?' asked Tad, only to be hushed instantly by the Doctor.

'You see, Doctor, I overheard your little gambit in that Sontaran hemispherical ship. You really shouldn't try to communicate in secret when there are holes in a vessel's hull'.

Frowning, I tried to work out where he might be broadcasting from. The signal didn't seem weak. Salamander's voice sounded tinny only because the radio speaker was small.

'And this Sontaran destroyer is already space-borne. I explained your plan to them, Doctor, and they promptly abandoned their comrades. No honour amongst thieves!'

'And you should know,' I muttered darkly.

'They did take me along, which is what I really wanted. Their other destroyer isn't fit for space travel any longer, and the cruiser's terrulian plant is now in pieces, having been taken apart to power the broadcast tower . So this was my last route off the planet.'

The Doctor could be heard wondering _why?_

'Yes, I was most persuasive, Doctor. I suppose that unfortunately I have confirmed John's opinion of me as a "rotter". Well, I can't stand around all day chatting, got to get back to the bridge. I came down to the drive room to give my little farewell speech – the Sontarans probably wouldn't appreciate it very much.'

The sound cut off with a snap.

Loud curses could be heard rolling around the room for a while, Clara listening in with great interest. The only person not dismayed was the Doctor.

'I don't like the way that broadcast cut off,' he mused, not really talking to any of us. 'The audio projector wouldn't - '

He stopped suddenly and strode to the door, throwning it open and looking outside, where the surviving women still present on the Grand Piazza were staring at the skies. A low murmur went around the vast square, enough of a noise to make me get up and saunter over to stand beside the Doctor.

'They're talking about a new star,' explained the Doctor, pointing at the heavens in a redundant gesture. The new star overhead grew still brighter whilst we watched, twinkling and radiating.

'I'm not big on astronomy, Doctor. However, a new star like that doesn't occur every day, does it?'

'No,' he agreed. 'No. A star, certainly not. The terrulian-powered pile of a Sontaran spaceship - that's another matter.'

Slowly, the new star faded in the heavens, dwindling and dying until it vanished entirely. Tad and Clara wanted an update on the astronomical phenomenon outside, which came from the Doctor, not me. I was still wondering what happened up there, out in deep space beyond Amalthea.

'It would appear that the Sontaran destroyer's terrulian drive blew up. Nothing will survive that, not even vapours.'

'Wasn't the drive where Salamander was broadcasting from?' asked Tad. He got a nod in answer.

'Yes. Yes, quite. By accident or intent, Salamander turned the power plant's systems off with my purloined electronic suppressor. The plant subsequently went critical and exploded.'

That scenario raised more questions than it answered. As we all knew by now, that magic electric stick would turn things back on if you pressed the big button for a second time. All Salamander needed to do was press it again.

Nobody brought up the fact that he'd gone whining to the Sontarans about being prosecuted for crimes, crimes that were two thousand years old and that no-one in Magellania knew or cared about.

Yes, yes, I know, did he jump or was he pushed. Did he deliberately kill the Sontaran's engine, or was it an accident? Who knows! I think the Doctor might know, but he won't tell.

What we were left with in the aftermath of such excitement was an encampment full of desperate Sontaran renegades, on the other side of Amalthea. I use the term "we", when it ought to be "everybody except the Doctor" because he knew what plans he'd set in motion.

Those plans came to fruition in the early dawn of the next day, when the sun rose in the east.

This was both unusual and unreal. The suns on Amalthea rose to the south, in sequence. Passers-by on the Piazza pointed and stared, and pointed at a shooting star that came soaring from the false sunrise, falling to earth in the hinterlands beyond Hollandia.

This slightly-poetical description was given to me when I was scoffing a bowlful of porrige after having a quick, nervy sleep. Clara came and lay next to me after I'd gone off, looking for sympathy perhaps, which I apparently provided by talking in my sleep.

'You did!' she insisted. 'Very nicely, too.'

Sitting down to drink a cup of strange Amalthean tea, I looked at her over the table, trying to look stern and forbidding, just in case she was pulling my leg.

'This feels like the end of a seaside holiday at Blackpool,' I tried. Clara shuddered.

'What a sinister place! "Black Pool". Ugh!' and she shivered.

Tad put in an appearance, looking pale around the gills. I had him sit and made a cup of extra-strong, extra-milky, extra-sweet tea, which perked him up considerably.

'Do they have coffee?' he asked wistfully. 'I would fight a Sontaran barehanded for a nice cup of coffee.'

'Fat chance!' I scoffed. 'They didn't bring pigs, coffee or anything aquatic to Magellania.'

Tad looked over my shoulder with surprise, as the door swung open and Officer Headon burst in, looked excited.

'Sontarans! They managed to get away from their encampment before it blew up!' she shouted, almost jumping up and down with frenzy. 'We got them on Athena Two.'

' "Blew up"?' queried Tad.

'The unexplained extra sunrise, I presume. I also presume the Bucketheads didn't put their cruiser back together in the proper order and it went pop,' I guessed. Completely wrong, but not a bad guess nevertheless.

'We need help in dealing with them,' added Officer Headon. 'I have three hovercraft but not enough people able and willing. Their spaceship crashed well outside the canton.'

'Count me in!' I replied, getting up and realising that the Doctor, spoilsport, hadn't brought my elephant gun out of the TARDIS. 'D'you have any rheon weapons?'

She nodded.

'Good. I'll have one for each hand. Tad, are you capable of wobbling in the direction of the Law Offices? Clara, you need to stay here and tell the Doctor what we're doing. No! Don't argue.'

Shepherding Tad outside, I made sure Clara remained in the guest house. Sontarans and her in close proximity were two bad things waiting to happen. She would put herself at risk by trying to grill Sontarans like hamburgers.

Of course, the Doctor came out of the TARDIS exactly when we passed by. A mixed blessing, this, because he would interfere if I mentioned the imminent demise of a lot of Bucketheads.

'Off to round up the survivors?' he asked. 'If there are any.' He gave a short explanation. The "shooting star" appearance of the Sontaran spaceship meant its hull had suffered extensive damage and the whole thing might well disintegrate when it hit denser air in the lower atmosphere, falling back to earth.

'Yes. And if they so much as squint at me, then they will cease to trouble the world of the living,' I replied. 'And, whilst you're out of your box of tricks, can I get the hardware Tad and I brought along?'

Surprisingly, he agreed, without any great argument. This was out-of-character enough for me to wonder what he planned.

'There may well be no survivors when you reach the impact zone. At all costs you must recover their bodies, and bring back any live Sontarans.'

Tad scratched his forehead.

'Bring them back here, alive or dead?' He sounded puzzled. 'Why should we do that?'

Infuriatingly, the Doctor wouldn't tell us.

'Gentlemen, I can only assure you it is vital that the Sontarans who escaped are returned, alive preferably, dead only in extremis.'

By this speech we could work out he wasn't coming with us. No, he explained, there was more useful work he could do here in Hollandia, repairing, fixing and communicating, and would we mind taking away our noisy toys?

Our three-hovercraft convoy whistled out of Hollandia, Tad and myself sorting out weapons in the lead one. I clipped the barrel back home on the Jimpy, walloping the stock home and presented it to him.

'Short bursts only. There's no spare barrel.'

I kept the Nitro, and gave the M79 to a Law Officer, who felt pleased to get a better weapon than a shotgun. There were lots of rheon pistols shared between the Law Officers, which made me apprehensive. They were the kind of weapon that didn't allow you to make the same mistake twice. The stated plan was to drive east until within visible range of the Sontaran's crashed ship, then stop and take stock of the situation. If I was along only as an extra gun, it wouldn't do to go sticking my nose in and offering advice they didn't want. All the same, I couldn't just let them run madly en masse at any Sontaran survivors, causing a massacre.

Officer Headon, stern and grim, acted as co-driver, making it absolutely sure that she was Officer Headon, not Julie, and not available for light chit-chat or waffly banter. The half dozen of us in the rear compartment chatted a bit, watched the scenery pass outside, then chatted some more. Officer Headon got fed-up as the co-driver and came into the rear with the rest of us.

'Still a good three hours to go,' she warned us, then cosied up to me. This didn't fool me, she was after gossip.

'Do you have any plans for the attack?' she asked in a low voice.

Okay, _not_ gossip.

'Not until we see what the crash site looks like. It may simply be a giant smoking crater in the ground or a hundred whole healthy toadmen running around. The Doctor insisted that we return all Sontarans, even the dead ones, back to Hollandia, which might be a problem if the crash site survivors are a cloud of vapour.'

Without a trace of warning, she shifted conversational topics.

'Clara's very fond of you. Did you know that?'

'You are so like women on Earth! Gossip and – and – ' and I couldn't think of what came after gossip, except more gossip. 'Yes I know she likes John the Fat Human. Which, according to the Doctor, places a responsibility upon me.'

Instead of being offended, Officer Headon smiled like a cat after washing the cream down with caviar and truffles.

'Yes I am fond of her, Officer Headon, despite or because of what she is. I can't explain any of it, so go and see the Doctor if you want reasons. I'm only Fat John.'

In a huff, I curled up and went to sleep.

Shadows outside were lengthening when I abruptly awoke, shaking sleep off and sitting bolt upright. A quick peek out the porthole revealed more rolling, craggy countryside, with clumps of fantastically-coiled bushes dotted here and there, and lone stands of those enormous trees only ever witnessed at a distance.

'Oh!' said one of the Law Officers, a part-timer denoted by her grey uniform banding. 'We slowed down just this instant.'

'It's only just First Sunset. There's still at least an hour of light left,' assured the driver. I got up behind her seat and craned forward for a better view.

'The smoke – see it?' she asked, pointing directly ahead. A vast, vague curtain hung in the air before us, becoming more solid and apparent at ground level. 'Once I saw that, it was time to slow down.'

Our lead hovercraft boasted a set of extremely hi-tec electronic binoculars that brought the crash site into sharp focus: a long furrow ploughed in the earth by the wrecked vessel, with the battered hulk piled up in a mass of earth and boulders. Small groups of Sontarans clustered at the side of their ruined ship, looking aimless and lost.

The driver halted the hovercraft, which settled lower until it's skirts creaked against the ground. I borrowed her electronic bins, which thoughtfully gave me the range in kilometres to the wreck: two point six six kilometres. At top speed we could get there in three minutes.

'Time for talk about how to tackle the Bucketheads,' suggested Tad. The trio of vehicle's back up and the occupants got out. Normally, soldiers "debus" from a vehicle but this lot weren't soldiers and they simply got out.

Problem One: how to get within range of the Sontarans without getting this lot killed. They sensibly deferred to the two males present, since we had experience.

Plan One: keep it simple. Tad would sit in the lead hovercraft, after unseating the front window, acting as fire support with the Jimpy. The three vehicles would drive full speed at the Sontarans in column formation, and the lead would flash it's rear lights to indicate when the toadies spotted them. At that moment the other two hovercraft would swing out, flanking the leader, getting to within three hundred yards of the wreck. All three would drop their crews there, the outer two groups skirmishing forward whilst we in the middle provided covering fire. Tad wanted the skirmishers to drop after a hundred paces and swap roles, which I thought was pushing our luck rather.

'There's what appears to be a heavy weapon in the middle of the central group of stumpies. Make sure you give them plenty of rounds with the Jimpy.'

He eyed me with the Nitro Express.

'Make sure you hit them with the dinosaur gun, eh? That's the only long-range weapon we have that kills Sontarans.'

My plan was indeed to kill Sontarans at long range, then to get close and kill Sontarans with the two rheon pistols stuffed into a musette bag. Tad reminded the women that our enemies were doubtless desperate, stranded on Amalthea, the last of their group, much battered after being wrecked and with nothing to lose. A fight to the death was in the offing.

With a last pause for any witty comments, of which none were forthcoming, our little command got back into the hovercraft and set off.

Moving relatively slowly, to raise less dust and create less engine noise, we closed the distance to less than a kilometre before the stumpies recognised the threat approaching. When they began to mill around in alarm, all three hovercraft powered forward, out of alignment and at different speeds. So much for the co-ordinated assault!

When our vehicle stopped and we stormed out, I estimated the distance to our enemy as no more than a hundred yards, while the hovercraft on our left had stopped further back and the right-hand one was off to the east, and still moving.

Well, you make do with what you have. Short streaks of tracer were already zipping into the Sontaran crew at their presumed-laser-death-ray, ricocheting around. Tad at work.

Crouching down and moving, I shouted to the five others with me to spread out. Next I went down into a prone position, took aim at the still upright, if battered, enemy crewman at his laser and hit him with both barrels.

One of my best shots ever, hitting him right in the visor, even if I had been aiming at his upper chest. When the body got collected later, the visor hadn't actually broken, merely been propelled inwards by the Nitro rounds, which had bounced round the inside of the helmet until their kinetic energy was spent. Wisely, the helmet was left unopened.

Breaking and reloading, I saw our comrade with the M79 point it, close both eyes and pull the trigger. The round impacted on the hull of the wreck, making plenty of noise.

I picked out another of the supposed crewmen, who went head over heels when a couple of Jimpy tracer rounds hit him. He got up, then went down for good with a couple of Nitro rounds in his middle, which mostly projected out of his back.

I checked left and right. The other two groups were almost on the Sontarans now, with little firing going on.

'Skirmish forward! Keep five paces apart!' I yelled. My troop of enthusiastic amateurs dashed forward, far too fast. I slung the Nitro, pulled out both rheon pistols and prepared to commit bloody execution.

Not just little firing going on, I realised: no firing at all. The Sontarans generally clumped together, bracing hands behind necks – their gesture for surrender.

What a dispirited, lacklustre and down-at-heel lot they were! A few had tried to fight back, ineffectually, getting picked off by the Amaltheans. The rest gave up.

'Some no-holds barred struggle, eh?' I commented to Tad when he lurched up, toting the Jimpy and helped by the driver. 'Must be forty of them, and they gave up. Wimps.'

I looked at the proud Amalthean victors and shook my head.

'The worst section assault I've ever witnessed.'

'It worked,' replied Tad, shrugging in a manner Marie would envy.

'Er – yes. Yes, it did. Perhaps I should take credit for that.'

Half a dozen Bucketheads were dead, including the two I shot. One Law Officer was dead, and another had lost an arm from the elbow down. One of the part-timers had paramedic experience and stabilised the injured woman. The rest of us disarmed Sontarans, removed helmets and sent them to stand under an armed escort, until a shriek of rage and distress went up from futher west, towards the nose of the wreck.

When those of us not guarding prisoners got there, we found a dirty, ragged, blank-faced group of a dozen Amalthean slaves, all staring mindlessly to the horizon. Sontarans nearby edged away.

'Release them!' shouted a Law Officer.

'De-condition them now!' shouted the officer with the M79, pointing it at the nearest stumpy and keeping her eyes wide open this time.

None of the Sontarans spoke. They might be aliens, with alien modes of expression and communication, but I knew exactly what they were thinking: if I undo that condition, the humans will assume I did it originally.

Doing a fancy twirl with my .45, which by the way is silly and dangerous, but a great way to get people's attention, I cocked it and shot the nearest helmetless stumpy in the head. Yes, I knew the bullets weren't powerful enough to kill, not with Sontaran skulls as thick as they were. Stumpy wouldn't be in any condition to explain that fact to his comrades for a few minutes. Besides, maybe it would kill him. Either way, I didn't care.

'You!' I snapped, pointing at a random prisoner. 'I'm going to leave you alive to de-condition these women. The rest of your charming chums are going to die.'

One of the charming chums gave in and agreed to de-condition the women, with me holding the Nitro to his ear in case of any silly business with the rheon wand device.

Ten minutes later the shot Sontaran regained consciousness, staggering upright and clutching his head.

'Good,' commented Tad. I cocked an eyebrow at him. Good? A live Sontaran was good? 'He can move under his own power. Otherwise – well, we have a problem, no?'

Too many prisoners. Forty-two live bodies, and six dead ones. Far too many to carry in the hovercraft.

One of the part-time Law Officers solved the problem with towing cable. The Sontarans were tied to the cables, which were attached to towing eyes on the hovercraft. Simple and effective.

There were complaints, of course, which were resolved by the resourceful Tad.

'If any of you protests, my friend here will kill you. If any of you tries to escape, my friend here will kill you. If any of you attack the Amaltheans, my friend here will kill you. In fact, if you breathe too loudly or frown, my friend here will probably kill you. All that stops him from killing you all is the difficulty of transporting forty-two corpses back to Hollandia.'

Hey, he wasn't kidding that much. Seeing those wretched slaves brought back the memory of that giant corpse pit at the mine.

The dead Sontarans didn't protest, although one of the live ones asked why we had slain their field plasma-oven catering crew? indicating the two Bucketheads I'd dropped with the Nitro.

Memo to self: Sontaran cookers look like laser-death rays.

'Because they looked at me funny!' I shouted, going for the rage-covering-a-mistake gambit.

Despite earlier tough-talking, the hovercraft used their lowest gearing and moved pretty slowly, certainly slowly enough for the stumpies to keep their feet. There was a water stop every hour for five minutes. Part of this consideration came from what the Law Officers worried about what the Traveller might say about mis-treating captives.

Our progress was so slow that night came and went before we reached Hollandia in the light of First Sunrise. Dawn camouflaged the silence and stillness of the city which would otherwise have warned us of things gone awry.

Arriving on the Grande Piazza to what ought to have been a heroes and heroines welcome, instead we found ourselves under the guns of a compact warship that had landed in the square.

Stamping down the landing ramp came a welcome party you don't see every day – the Doctor, on seemingly good terms with an escort of Sontarans.


	9. Chapter 9

Part Nine: Not Bad – For a Hu-Man

As you might imagine, seeing a Sontaran warship sat in the middle of Hollandia struck everyone dumb.

Everyone _human_, I should add. The Sontaran prisoners staggering along behind us let out a great wail of discontent, dragging on their bonds in a manner that suggested they didn't like seeing other Sontarans, or other Sontarans freely walking around at liberty.

'What now!' shouted Officer Headon. 'What now! And what is The Traveller helping Sontarans for!' You can't blame the lass for sounding confused and angry. Even Tad, Mister Deadpan Defined, looked cross.

The Sontarans on the exit ramp accorded the Doctor every courtesy, treating him like one of their own, not leading him, giving him space, refraining from killing him on the spot. Quite bizarre. Not to mention worrying. The Buckethead dastards hadn't managed to Condition him with their hideous mind-bending technology, perhaps?

'Seeing that we are outgunned by a factor of several thousand, I recommend that we exit with caution,' I said, leaving my Nitro rifle in the hovercraft. Being slighly hypocritical, I kept my boot knife.

Once outside I tried to prevent any silly heroics, or heroine-ics, by shouting at the Amaltheans leaving the other hovercraft to leave their weapons inside, not to open fire, and to generally behave with a degree of caution. That warship, bristling with antennae and gun turrets, looked to mean business.

'Splendid! Very well done!' enthused the Doctor, marching off the end of the landing ramp and over the flagstones towards us. 'Lots of live captives and very few dead ones.'

The cluster of Sontarans around him looked to be equally pleased with the outcome, nodding and talking to each other in undertones. The one standing alongside the Doctor maintained an aloofness that meant he was the Sontaran equivalent of a senior officer.

'Excellent!' he managed, in best Received Sontaran. The Doctor's attitude changed subtlely, his focus shifting to the middle distance behind us, his expression of satisfaction abruptly changing to one of worry.

Tad's attention had been less on the display in front of us, and more on the entire surroundings, which meant he hissed a low "John!" to me in warning, twitching his thumb backwards.

My shoulders, spirits and jaw all slumped. There were two Sontarans, both wearing helmets, escorting a naked, bright green Clara from the diplomatic guest house. One Sontaran held a pincer device that clamped around Clara's upper left forearm and dragged her forward by that; the other had an electric prod similar to the one from _Seraphim_. He jabbed her with that when she slowed down or stumbled. The pincer arrangement was tight enough and sharp enough to cause Clara to bleed. We later learnt that it prevented my Rutan lady from shrivelling the Sontarans into kindling.

John's Tongue had gotten me into trouble before, and now John's Feet operated without any sensible thought behind them. John's Tongue, obviously realising that John's Feet weren't going to get him into big enough trouble on their own, also participated. Tad's testimony afterwards claimed that my eyebrows drew together, my jaw set like concrete and a small black cloud emitting lightning sat over my head.

So, I walked in front of the approaching party. Clara opened her mouth to speak, being forestalled by a jab with the electric prod that sizzled audibly against her skin.

'Excuse me, but that's my girl friend you're abusing,' I said, as coldly and matter-of-factly as possible, clenching my fists. Maybe gilding the truth a little, but "she's an alien acquaintance of mine whom I like quite a bit" just doesn't have the same ring to it.

The Sontarans stopped dead. I would like to think that they feared the Fat Human John, but more likely they were thinking "_What_ did he say!"

Their helmets turned toward each other, then back to me.

'This is a Rutan,' said the external speaker of one.

'_She_ is my girl friend,' with a lot of emphasis on the first word. Clara looked at me, very hard indeed. Green "blood" slowly trickled down her arm, not a fact likely to improve my temper.

The second Sontaran raised his cattle prod to move their prisoner forward, and John's Brain finally joined in.

'A Rutan battleship!' I shouted, pointing behind the trio. Both Sontarans turned and looked (bloody rank and file idiots!), which gave me the opportunity to jump forward and deliver a right hook against the cattle-prod wielder as his probic vent came into both view and reach. I have to say, it hurt, a lot, both him and I. He reeled away, dropping the prod, which I snatched up and jammed against his friend for long enough to make smoke coil up from his armour. After that he wasn't a threat, merely a smokey bundle of convulsions.

Sucking my broken knuckle, I wrenched the pincer-device away from Clara with my left hand, fully expecting that the Sontarans accompanying the Doctor would level their weapons and blow me to bits.

To bits? Not a bit of it. The Doctor told me afterwards that he'd physically restrained the Sontaran leader, laying a hand on the stumpy's arm and loudly ordering that no shooting take place.

In what was becoming common practice, I gave my now very shabby denim jacket to Clara, and tore a length from my now very threadbare shirt. Actually I had to tear three lengths, because the first and second strips weren't wide or long enough to soak up the blood she was losing. In the cinema the torn shirt always fits first time; not on Amalthea.

'I tried to kill them,' she whispered. 'I thought they'd killed _you_. I tried to kill them.'

That would be the long, long journey we'd taken to get back to Hollandia, a journey without communicating back to base that we were alright and bringing in lots of prisoners.

Ignoring the Sontarans closing in, I felt a ferocious stinging in my eyes. Must be the smoke from that half-cooked Sontaran, Johnny-boy, affecting the pork-pies. My response was slightly different.

'Hey, I am Fat John - padded against any Sontaran weapon. Don't cry now. Don't. Don't!' I blurted, well aware that crying females, or crying pseudo-females, or crying, convincing, self-persuaded pseudo-females - oh what the hell! - crying women – they were something I would tear tanks in two to avoid.

'How touching!' grated a Sontaran voice from behind. Ah. Yes. The spectre at the feast. 'How touching, and how inherently incomprehensible. A human and a Rutan.'

When I turned around, two Sontarans were holding the Doctor in a species of rugby tackle, completely immobilising him.

'John! No!' he shouted, meaning it with every fibre of his being. 'Don't try to - '

A beefy Sontaran hand stopped him from speaking. That same stumpy officer had advanced from the landing ramp to within fifty yards of me. Brave chap, he was backed by fifty other stumpy Bucketheads in armour, toting rheon carbines, who were in turn backed up by a spaceship mounting meson cannon.

'If you want Clara, you have to go through me to get her,' I said. Still not recovered from the brain-bashing of the day before, and the effort of throwing desks around, and fighting Sontarans, and three broken knuckles, I probably sounded pretty pathetic.

'Done!' bellowed the Sontaran commander. 'Prepare the Cirque Sauvage!

I don't think they made up the Circque Sauvage on the spot, and never fully understood why a Sontaran practice came with a French name. It amounted to trial by combat. I realised this instantly because nobody shot me dead on the spot. The Sontaran commander took off his helmet, revealing a face hatched with scars, and he seemed taller and slimmer than other Sontarans I'd met to date. The escorting soldiers shuffled round in a circle, which would be the arena, a small one only thirty feet across.

That put me at a disadvantage, since I wanted to keep space between me and matey.

'Field Marshall Garkos,' he introduced himself, bowing slightly, then drawing his tetrahedral dagger.

'Captain Walmsley,' I replied, bowing a little whilst getting my boot knife.

'Already prepared! Excellent!' he said, with relish. Then he pointed his dagger at a soldier. 'No interruptions. None!'

We commenced our little dance. Frankly I'm not much good at knife-fighting; I make too big a target and can't move nimbly enough. Against a normal Buckethead I might have done better, but Garkos moved as well as I did, thanks to his slimmer build.

A bit of circling, a couple of feints to see how fast the other chap responded, then I swapped the knife over - my right hand was aching where the knuckles had walloped that probic vent five minutes before. Garkos watched this move with interest, then came at me, his blade low and held back to the right. Ducking left, I pushed back hard with my left foot and bounded backwards, catching Garkos out as he moved to his right, and slashing a gash in his tunic across the left bicep. Without hesitation he dropped low and swung his dagger at my shins, making me dance backwards. I swapped the knife again, circling and trying to maintain distance. If he got too close to me I'd end up spitted.

Where did the centre of gravity for a Sontaran sit? With this character it would be higher than the squatter, lower, soldier version, making him more vulnerable to a toppling attack.

Garkos came at me again, this time thrusting his knife arm out like a spear, putting all his considerable force behind it. I dropped onto my back, rolling away to my right, slashing behind me and coming up in a crouch, to see Garkos' left boot spilling insulation above where his ankle ought to be. No blood.

This time I attacked, flicking my knife over, the changed position allowing a downward stab, at which Garkos threw up his left forearm to block, only for me to pivot away and stamp at his right knee. He got me with a raking slash down the back of my right thigh, bad but not critical, and when I spun around to face him, he favoured that right knee. Good! That was a hard kick his knee got, and it should slow him down a bit, having had nineteen stone launch itself off him.

Mind you, that nasty wet stinging at the back of my leg bespoke a wound that might slow me down.

Garkos didn't come at me with anything like his former speed, which might have been caution, or a knackered knee, or deceitful Sontaran tactics. Instead he tried to crowd me in against the barrier of Sontaran soldiery, which meant I had to continually dance aside. No way did I want to get close enough to risk him laying hands on me.

Abruptly, surprising me as much as matey, I danced back in the opposite direction, lashing out with the knife as I did a complete turn in mid-air, and catching Garkos' knife arm on the wrist with some effect. I felt the blade bite in as he responded by reflex, and the triangular dagger went clattering across the stones of the Grande Piazza. Instead of trying to follow or catch it, he went for me, delivering a real hammer of a kick that knocked my feet away and sent me reeling across the flags, incidentally losing the boot knife.

Long training asserted itself and I rolled over repeatedly, throwing myself upright in a way that the unarmed combat instructors at Fulwood would have been proud of. Garkos wiped dark red blood away from his right wrist, across his palms. Might help with traction – blood coagulates and stops being slippery after about three minutes.

Take assay, John, assess yourself. The back of my right thigh hurt, where the dagger tip cut into it for a good foot. My right hand hurt where I'd hit the Sontaran soldier. My shins felt bruised where Garkos hit them.

Nothing effective, not yet. However, we were now down to bare hands, which favoured Garkos and his strength over John and his nowhere-near-equivalent strength. In a contest like this, I needed to maintain a distance and avoid grappling. Garkos came at me in an unsophisticated rush, much as a prop-forward might. I let him get close and dodged aside, giving him a pummel on the ear as he went past. Oh no, Mister Garkey, ten years of rugby have honed my dodging skills to the _n_th degree!

When he came back at me he stopped short and punched left-handed, catching me under the ribs on my right side, which hurt, so I gave him a quick left-handed jab in the face and a right hook, breaking his nose with an audible crack.

Dancing back again, I saw him shake his head, spraying a disgusting mixture from his nose with a series of huge snorts. I saw an opportunity and jumped at him, hitting him squarely in the chest with both feet. The idea was to knock him off-balance and follow up with a hit to the fontanelle or the ears, killing blows both. Alas for me, he somersaulted backwards, rolling across the flags in practiced style to jump upright again, and his unarmed combat instructors would have been clapping the lad.

What I wanted to deliver was an unsophisticated immobiliser, that would allow me to kill him afterwards. Trouble was, Garkos was thinking the same way. Nor was he one of the Sontaran rank and file, drudges with little wit or ability; he thought fast and moved accordingly.

Thus, whilst we faced each other, I feinted right and made a full circle left on my left foot, which brought me up alongside Garkos but facing away from him. I kicked backwards with my right foot at his right knee as hard as I could, causing him to fold up as biology and gravity took hold of him.

But, the swine, not before delivering a blow to my kidneys with the flat edge of his back-hand that felt like a meat cleaver. Still, I had the advantage of being upright whilst he was face-down.

Don't think that all this was comprehensively thought-out and analysed, I winged it on the hoof without any deep intellectual involvement. Kill kill kill!

I fell on him from behind and above, putting my full weight on my knees as they hit his back. This is the sort of blow that kills people in real-life, breaking spines and ribs and internal organs. Garkos gave a howl and retaliated by driving his left elbow back into my ribs.

Now, remember that he wore an armoured cuirass whilst all I had was my shirt to protect me. Those ribs broke, audibly, which sent me reeling backwards to collapse on the flagstones on my arse.

Without question, I blacked out, and remember coming-to seconds later with little black dots swirling around the edges of my vision. Garkos advanced towards me with his dagger and my knife, the Sontaran swine (my thoughts at the time weren't translatable into human, let alone polite English). About to deliver the _coup de gras_. Well, I might be immobilised but if he got within lunging distance I'd put at least one of his eyes out.

Garkos halted and sheathed his own dagger, then presented mine hilt-first over his forearm, bowing low to me. Formally. Not trying to gut me with his pig-sticker.

Yes, yes, I know I was slow to pick this up. Sue me. I wasn't even able to breathe properly by now.

Garkos bowed even lower, presenting the boot knife to me.

'Apologies!' he grated, not able to speak properly thanks to his broken nose. 'I did not realise you were not wearing armour. You would have defeated me had I not been wearing a cuirass.'

Blinking madly, I took the humble boot knife, at which Garkos stood and gave a cross-chest salute. He turned and bowed to the Doctor, looked at Clara with uncertainty, then gestured to the guards forming the arena circle. The Sontaran prisoners chained behind the Amalthean hovercraft were released and marched into the small spaceship.

'That's it?' asked a bewildered Tad. Garkos turned to look at him.

'What did you expect?'

'You're not going to attack the Amaltheans?' I asked, coughing wretchedly. Garkos looked down at me and shook his head.

'What tactical or strategic end would be served by slaughtering unarmed peasants? Precious little honour there, Captain.'

After the previous behaviour of the Sontarans here on Amalthea this reply reduced me to silence. My aching ribs didn't help, either.

Hang on, hang on, John – those Sontarans we took prisoner weren't looking exactly happy at being liberated by their comrades, were they? If it came to that, why were their hands being locked behind their backs?

That injured Sontaran I'd shot in the head caught the attention of the Sontarans around the Doctor. They pointed and muttered to each other, with a satisfied sound. The injured Sontaran was Gault, originator of the revolt amongst this flotilla, I was told by the Doctor.

Garkos hung around until the bitter end, stopping to look at me and comment to the Doctor.

'Your chosen champion performed very well, for a human. Goodbye.'

At which point, being completely done-in, I fell over sideways. I would have split my head on the flagstones if a soft green body hadn't interposed itself.

My recuperation in the Mercy House of Hollandia was a trial in itself. It was more than a hospital, having all sorts of therapeutic and counselling annexes in addition to the medical institute. None of these, however, were constructed to take account of male patients. Fitters made me a compact ward for my very own, complete with a male toilet and urinal – a source of endless amusement to the ward staff. At least they didn't install a bidet. Marie joked about the lack of same in England.

The Doctor came to tell me off in the company of Clara and Tad. Yes, "Tell me off". I'd compromised his plans and plotting by taking up cudgels against Garkos.

'Really, John! You spoilt everything!' he told me, paying close attention to a giant Amalthean apple. 'There I was, having persuaded Field Marshall Garkos that Clara was a surrogate human, when you step in and complicate matters.'

Clara poked the Doctor in the side.

'You leave John alone! He fought for me!'

The Doctor smiled wryly.

'Quite true! That was something I didn't plan on. Garkos felt convinced that Clara had to be almost human, especially if a human was willing to fight to the death for her.'

I chewed a slice of apple.

'Yeah – yes, I knew that,' I lied, receiving a look from the Doctor that warned me that he wasn't fooled or amused. 'No-one has explained how these extra Sontarans turned up on Amalthea.'

'It's very simple,' replied the Doctor. 'I asked them to come here.'

I shook my head with exaggerated theatrical emphasis.

'Did Garkey hit my head?' I asked rhetorically. 'Only, it sounded as if you asked the Sontarans to come here. How silly of me to imagine that!'

Withering look from the Doctor. Let him look on in such fashion! Amalthea didn't need any more Sontarans, not after what the last lot got up to.

'Why?' asked Tad, getting to the meat of the matter.

The Doctor looked between the two of us and shook his head in mock despair.

'Gentlemen! John, what have you been doing in your capacity as an officer recently? Planning and executing operations. Tad – what would happen back in Gdansk if half a dozen of your men deserted?'

That insinuation was a good way to get Tad annoyed, which is to say his eyebrows drew together, and his lips compressed by one millimetre.

'The police – that is, the military police – would pursue them.'

'Exactly. The military polices it's own, which means that Provost Field Marshall Garkos was delighted to hear of the whereabouts of the renegade flotilla. He brought a lot of firepower to the task.'

Ah. That would be the false dawn on the other side of the planet, and Garkos blowing the renegade Sontarans to vapour.

'This lot were Sontaran Military Police?' I snapped. 'Why not tell us! Ow.' The last part came because my ribs didn't like the exertion.

My question contained it's own answer. "Hello friends I've just called down a flotilla of Sontaran spaceships" didn't conjure up the most reassuring image. Sontarans didn't have a good press to begin with, and a Sontaran incursion into Amalthea –

'That's why I wanted a small renegade Sontaran raid on Hollandia,' continued the Doctor. 'To capture one of their ships and use it to send a message. Garkos' knew everything when he arrived here thanks to that broadcast Salamander made.'

So the Doctor had used the Sontarans by proxy to get rid of the renegades on Amalthea. Quite rational, really, since the local systems didn't have anything remotely capable of fighting off the flotilla and it's weapons. Rational, yes, but bloody difficult to manage properly. I tried to put the plot in a comprehensible context. What would the Redcaps have done if a whole company of British infantry deserted after D-Day in Normandy, killing and robbing locals? Why, they would track the deserters down, and if canny French locals passed on information about where to find the culprits, so much the better.

'What happens to the prisoners we took?' asked Tad, causing a wrinkle to appear on the Doctor's brow.

'Hmm. A court martial. Long prison sentences for the fortunate, rendering of organs for the less fortunate, medical weapons testing for Gault.'

Ouch! Still, they deserved it.

'Did you know they wouldn't stay?' asked Clara. The Doctor shrugged.

'Not definitely, no. However, this planet, indeed Magellania, has nothing they might want or need.'

'They need to deliver their prisoners for sentence,' added Tad.

'That, too,' said the Doctor, punctuating his reply with a huge sigh. 'I only wish my plans hadn't backfired so badly.'

'Badly!' I questioned. 'How the hell did you do badly!'

Typical Doctor, he can't resist a bit of self-flagellation. Cup half-empty viewpoint, you see.

'Too many people died,' he said, ticking the body-count off on his fingers. 'One: all those Conditioned slaves we were too late to save, to the number of maybe eighteen thousand. Two: those killed by the Sontaran's bombardment of Hollandia, at over two thousand. Three: Amaltheans killed by that appalling broadcast signal, three thousand at least.'

Tad, glowering like – was Dostoevsky Polish? – well, glowering like a very bad-tempered Slav, snapped his fingers in annoyance.

'You left out more bodies, Doctor, the ones who did _not_ die. The surviving mine slaves have been rescued. Two entire garths of Amaltheans escaped from the Sontaran sweep – maybe as many as a thousand people – thanks to you alerting them with exiled soldiers. Most of Hollandia survives at this moment because the Sontaran war-vessel attacking it was destroyed before it could make good it's threat. Over two million people on Amalthea survive as individuals with free-will because you smashed the Sontaran's mind-control technology.'

Cocking his head to one side, the Doctor stroked his cheek with a finger.

'That, Doctor, is the good news,' finished Tad. I think it was the longest speech I've heard him make, and certainly the most emotional.

'There is more good news!' beamed Clara. Bless her, she really couldn't restrain herself. What was the good news? She'd found more clothes that fitted her? Escaped survivors of the Sontaran conditioning programme had been found in the wilds? The Doctor gave her a photography book of human faces she could copy? The _Seraphim _had been repaired? The life story of the fascia she'd adopted could be found in an Amalthean archive?

None of the above.

'John said I am his girlfriend!' she announced, proudly, holding my hand in hers. Tad's eyes narrowed and his chest rocked in what another, less charitable, person might have identified as silent laughter. The Doctor merely smiled, patting our mutually entangled hands.

'How thoroughly charming!' he added with complete sincerity, as the ward supervisor, a person who would be the matron back on good old planet Earth, came in and shooed away all my visitors, including Clara.

My head fell back on the pillow. Like I kept saying and feeling, Monty Python, farce and bitter, bitter tragedy all combined.

Minerva Corrigan and a crowd of her relatives, employees and friends came to visit me in the Mercy House. The smaller girls exhibited no sense of fear or worry, and needed to be prevented from climbing all over me.

'Where the polar bear bit me,' I wheezed to Ellie as she got lifted off my mattress after sticking her foot in my ribs and provoking an agonised face on my part. 'After – after I hit him in the face with a snowball as big as this - ' lifting both hands two metres apart. 'And I put cow poo in it!' I whispered to her as she frowned and bent closer to listen, bursting into a fit of giggles and refusing to tell her mum what I'd said.

'He's getting better,' she announced to the ward. 'But he's still a _terrible_ fibber!'

Minerva told other women to keep quiet and told me what was happening out at Frangipani. The Sontarans managed to steal some cattle and crops, but not much thanks to the preparation undertaken. The garth was being repopulated and rebuilt, at full speed thanks to no worries about encroaching Sontaran killers. Anne, with the backing and support of her beefy partner, was no longer the butt of jokes, but rather a hard-working construction operative much in demand for the heavy rebuilding jobs. I gave her a wink and a thumbs-up from where she stood at the rear of the crowd. Gloria Corrigan, looking sullenly at her feet every second she was there, waited until the Corrigan clan had departed, then darted back.

'You're still a horrible nasty _man_,' she informed me over a pointed finger. I mimed being struck in the heart with an arrow, to her unsuccessfully-stifled amusement. 'But – but just now we needed horrible nasty men. Bye!'

Faint praise is better than none, I suppose.

There was a lot of time to lie back and think about things in that one-man ward. Salamander, for one. Looking back, his little speech began to sound like more of a warning to us about the remaining Sontarans, rather than a boastful escapee gloating at his escape. I don't know, perhaps he really did cause the spaceship to blow up by intent.

Then there was old Garkey, Provost Field Marshall Garkos. If Sontarans were simply ruthless butchers, he'd have shot Clara and I to bits and walked away. Instead he took part in a trial by combat, won it, then deferred because he'd cheated. "Honour", he quoted, a concept not associated with the Bucketheads already on-planet. Honour meant not slaughtering the Amaltheans for no reason. Okay, so the regular Sontarans were a cut above the renegade version.

Lastly, there was Clara, dammit. I didn't think of her as a Rutan any longer, simply as "Clara", and – there you go, using the label "her". She liked me, a lot, for no reason I could understand or that anyone else could or would explain to me. I had gotten very fond of her, and wondered at what point "very fond" became "fancy" with a touch of worry. Not that Marie was around to make me feel guilty – she'd been dead two thousand years by now, a point Anne made back in Frangipani. Part of my concern was that declaration by the Doctor that I bore a reciprocal responsibility to Clara. Plus, how could I admit to Tad that I had a polymorphic green-skinned alien girlfriend?

I'm sure things go easier in fiction.

'I'm going to return to Earth whilst you recuperate, John. I'll be back in a couple of hours,' said the Doctor, politely popping his head round the door the next morning to inform me. 'Collecting Winifred.'

Hastily, I gestured him over. He came in a little apprehensively, obviously about to depart.

'Doctor, do you know why Clara likes me so much?'

He looked taken aback.

'Isn't it obvious?'

'Not to me!'

'Why don't you ask her!' he grinned. 'You're asking the wrong person, John. I'm a Time Lord, not a human, and one aspect of humans I find most fascinating is their ability to surprise.' He turned and gave me a wave goodbye. 'Ask Clara. Rutans are highly intelligent, you know.'

Now, I _do_ wish he hadn't said that.

Officer Headon paid me a visit – no, actually that would be Julie Headon, out of uniform.

'Came to warn you,' she told me. 'The Archate are sending a delegate with a medal.'

'A medal! What, for getting pummelled into jelly by a Sontaran?'

She shook her head.

'Don't try that false modesty, John. For helping to get rid of those alien butchers.'

'Ah, that honour would go to the Doctor, you know. I think Tad and I got in his way, rather.'

Once again I got a shake of the head, but she left a bottle of that nice Perry Crush for me. Guess who came to visit again? Clara. This time I had a little insight of my own to inform her about.

When the Doctor came back from his jaunt back to Earth of the twentieth century he found me up on the roof of the Mercy House, accompanied by a half-full bottle of Perry Crush.

Why sit on the top of a hospital building? For the view, which was fantastic. From the service hatch covers you could see off to the horizon in every direction, in an atmosphere untainted by pollution. Closer to, the rambling outskirts of Hollandia rose to higher public buildings nearer the city centre and the Grand Piazza. Great savage scars, craters made by the brief Sontaran attack, pocked the city at random. _Thank heavens the Doctor risked his life and TARDIS to destroy that warship_, ran around my mind, seeing the immense damage a few minutes of bombardment had caused.

Amalthean construction and demolition workers – the latter a skill not needed much in this planet's history – were already at work on the ruins and unsafe buildings below. The _Seraphim_ was inbound from Philandros with a cargo of heavy plant equipment from Andromache; the Andromacheans waived their payment and the Philandreans provided hundreds of voluntary workers – Julie Headon told me that would be the biggest number of males ever seen on Amalthea, cause for a little trepidation. Another starship I'd not heard of yet, the _Angelus_, was also inbound, bringing women from other Magellanian worlds who had taken Emergency Elective. Amalthea needed re-populating!

'Ah, there you are, John,' said a familiar voice from behind me. The Doctor climbed out of the service hatch and onto the acre-wide flat roof, coming to stand next to me.

'The staff are worried that you might do something silly,' he commented, looking over the parapet and crinkling his eyes against the sunslight.

'Do something – what, chuck this bottle over the side? Don't be daft!' I snorted. He instantly perked up.

'That's better! No, they worried in case you threw yourself over the parapet.'

I goggled. That is, I expressed utter incomprehension. Which is to say, I goggled.

'I'm up here for the view, Doctor, not to put an end to myself!'

'I did wonder. You strike me as being very level-headed.' He sniffed at the Perry Crush bottle's open mouth. 'Be careful with this vintage. It packs a well-concealed punch.'

Being stood next to a human, he must have anticipated the next question.

'Why, exactly, did the staff worry about me?'

'Clara left in tears, according to the ward supervisor.'

Bloody nosey women! I scowled, noticeably so.

'I hope they weren't listening-in as well, that was a private conversation.'

I had earlier hit Clara with my new insight, not long after she started puffing-up the downy pillows on my bed.

'I know why I like you so much, and why you like me,' I said, very matter-of-fact and nonchalant, as if addressing the ceiling instead of another person.

My girlfriend – and by now I had to actively remember that she had green skin – slowed down in plumping up the pillows.

'Tad is feeling much better, he says,' she replied, trying to be nonchalant as well, but spoiling the effect by hitting the helpless pillow several times in the same place. Also by looking at me with the intensity of a searchlight.

'I have a weakness for intelligent women. You're intelligent. You're a woman. It should have occurred to me sooner, that you were able to assimilate a completely alien culture in a matter of days. Not mere mimickry but assimilation. Language, appearance, beahaviour, relationships. Only an intelligent entity can manage that.'

Clara stood stock-still, half-strangling my pillow. I carried on.

'That's it. I liked you from the off, and you picked up on that. Since I regard you as female, and – the Doctor will confirm this if you ask him – one thing I absolutely go raving mad about is women or children being abused, it puts me into a – into a - '

Clara had dropped the pillow and instead got me around the bicep, painfully. Whilst I winced and my eyes watered, she looked about to cry.

'You like me for what I am, not what I appear to be.'

'Er – yes,' I replied, slowly and not seeing where this would lead.

'And you put yourself in risk of death to protect me.'

Tortured grammar, perhaps, and a rather poetical interpretation, yet close to the truth. I nodded.

'I love you Captain John Walmsley!' she blurted, giving me a convinvingly human kiss. She must have been practicing. Damn, that was a convincing kiss! I even managed to kiss her back. Probably reflex action.

Next I knew, Clara burst into green Rutan tears and waved goodbye, backing out of the ward and leaving me to my tortured pillow, green-stained blankets and confused memories.

I gave the Doctor a pretty accurate account of the above, then stopped to comment.

'How – how, I ask, can an alien feel for me like that? Damnation, I think I do feel serious about her in turn!'

The Doctor sat down on the roof slates and looked at me, then the Amalthean suns, and the horizon.

'Remember this – "The heart will out".' He turned a weighty look on me. 'I don't expect you to trumpet this around, John, but when I had to say good bye to Jo Grant at Polwheal, a real goodbye, knowing that we would only ever meet briefly and occasionally in the future, it felt like saying goodbye to part of me.'

Idly, he picked up the bottle of Perry Crush and took a dainty swallow.

'You don't have to be human to be humane. Some things, John, some things transcend physical boundaries and the dictates of physiology. Affection, regard, love – nobody has ever been able to quantify those feelings and I doubt they ever will.'

Great. "I have a green alien girlfriend". I said it to myself and kicked mental midget John squarely in the wedding-tackle. I have a green alien girlfriend! Said proudly and with force. She chose me, and I subconsciously chose her. What the hell did I have to be apologetic about, given the swinish murdering humans I'd encountered far too often as a member of UNIT back on Earth.

A slap on the back took me by surprise.

'That's the fellow!' declaimed the Doctor. 'Lack of prejudice. The best starting position to be in.'

He seemed to take it for granted that a confused human and confused Rutan could hit it off big time, not seeing anything unusual in it. Broad-minded fella, the Doctor.

'Ah, yes,' I complained. 'I still don't think my brain's wired the way it ought to be. You know, hazard causing flight-and-fear or fight. Except in my case exclusively fight.'

This isn't a mild worry. In situations of extreme duress I went past the rage barrier and into a state of cold-blooded assassination. Had the Sontaran renegades been paraded in front of me I could have quite calmly killed them, one after the other until they were all dead, the end.

'You have potential, John. If you merely killed without compunction then that would be a worry. Your conscience is troubling you, however.' He took another well-mannered sip of the drink. 'And to have a conscience is a most worthy affliction. Not something I can help with, except to say that the moral struggle will strengthen you.'

'Wow thanks. Hey I'd better away to torture some puppies.'

He cuffed me over the head and we headed back down the service hatch.

Winifred, wearing the fascia of Gertie Millar – it does get confusing, doesn't it? – took Clara's green skin coloration with a touch of huffiness. Clara rebuffed any criticism with the simple reply "John likes it", whether I did or not.

So, finally, after rescuing the rascal we came to rescue, then losing him, then helping to save the planet, we were ready to leave Amalthea. The Archate turned it into a formal goodbye ceremony, honouring The Traveller primarily, his two less welcome male assistants, and Clara. Thousands of people clustered around the TARDIS on the Grand Piazza, waving us off. Quite affecting.

'Time for us to part company,' said the Doctor after powering the TARDIS doors shut. 'Winifred and Clara need to start anew, and not on Earth.'

That probably explained why Clara looked somewhat glum.

'I have chosed Magellania,' said Winifred, in a tone that brooked no argument. 'Because it is far from the Rutan Hive, the Sontarans and the Grey Imperials of Earth.'

Magellania constituted a fair stretch of space. Even I, not an astronomer, knew that.

'Well chosen!' congratulated the Doctor. 'Let's see if we can find you an unpopulated world.'

The TARDIS demonstrated it's ability to function like a spaceship, proving the "S" part of it's acronym and the following day was spent orbiting three different planets in different Magellanian star systems. Winifred chose a gas giant that possessed two planets the size of Mars, but in considerably better condition, and well able to support life. Clara seemed more resigned than pleased, poor lass. Her opinion didn't count for much when weighed against her parent's.

After the un-nerving wheezing of landing, the Doctor hunched his shoulders and opened the TARDIS doors, allowing us to see the impressive bulk of the gas giant looming overhead.

'I'm not one for long, painful goodbyes,' he said quietly. 'So I shall just say, farewell for the moment.'

Clara gave me a big hug, and Tad got a peck on the cheek.

'See you soon,' she called, walking out into daylight with a surprising spring in her step. The pollen or light or dust got in my eye and made it water.

'Would you like a standing invitation to accompany me when I return, John?' asked the Doctor, fiddling about with dials and switches.

'Well, yes! So far there's a lot of worlds out here we haven't seen.'

'And Clara,' added Tad for completeness.


	10. Chapter 10

Part Ten:Home is the Hunter

Arriving back at Aylesbury, to my surprise I found that many days had elapsed during our absence, revealed to begin with when I helped Tad to drag our weaponry back up and down down to the Armoury. Corporal Higgins sat in his booth, as he did when we left.

'Cor! Back again, sir?' He looked at the now considerably lighter golf-bag. 'Captain Beresford's been doing his nut, sir, since you took off with his FN.'

'I christened it for him, Corporal. Er – he had time to miss it?'

'You've been gone two weeks, sir,' replied Higgins, disapprovingly noting the wear and tear on every weapon we'd taken.

Two weeks! I'd sort of taken it for granted that the Doctor would return us mere minutes after he left.

Time to report back to the Brig, then. He wasn't in, Major Crichton deputising instead, creating a bit of an oh-dear situation.

'Report, on my desk by oh-nine hundred tomorrow, Captain Walmsley. Dates, times, places, names, to at least five thousand words length. Dismissed!'

'He is always like that?' asked Tad as I headed back to my office.

'Oh yes. Except that was pretty friendly for him.' I walked in to my office.

'No, don't get up, Lieutenant Munroe. I only came back to drop my golf-bag off.'

Yes, Nick had moved-in as BTO in my absence. He expressed surprise at seeing us, whilst wearing an air of furtive worry.

'What, you thought we were dead in a ditch somewhere? Thank you for that comment on my survival skills.'

We went down to the canteen, as the mess was closed for several hours yet. Over cups of segeant-major's tea, Tad agreed not to mention Clara to anyone if I refrained from mentioning his amorous slip. Technically his affair was two thousand years in the future, but that kind of argument carries no conviction with a wife.

Feeling more fortified with the best of Indian inside us, back we went to the Battalion Transport Officer's den. Nick had vanished like morning mist, leaving all the files in utter chaos – I found that he had them all up-to-date and accurate, however.

'Can you write up some notes for me to expand on?' I asked Tad. My calculation was that if we got sufficient bumf together then lovely and typewriter-friendly Sarah Jane Smith, the real one this time, could type them up. I spent an hour laboriously writing out longhand notes in biro before Lieutenant Eden stuck his head around the door.

'Oh! Sorry, sir, I was after another calendar from Lieutenant Munroe.' He retired at speed.

Calendar? Nick? The only dates he was interested in were edible ones. I smelt one of his scams.

The Guard Room log showed that Lieutenant Munroe had signed out hours ago.

'Taking delicate spares up to Castlemuir, sir,' explained the private on duty.

Oh yes? That was a two-day drive. What on earth was the scheming rascal up to?

In fact I was wrong in my assumption of guilt – he'd already been up to something and this was his escape method. I only realised that the next day, when I caught Lieutenant Spofforth tacking up a calendar on the noticeboard in his room.

'Tim – I need advice on motorbikes. I understand you did rallying and know the two-wheeled beasts more than I do?'

'Yes, sir!' he said, a touch of enthusiasm in his normally dour character. 'Cross-country or road? Sir?'

My attention had wandered to the calendar. "June" had Charlton Heston displayed, baring his chest as he did in "Planet of the Apes", looking sweaty and harassed.

'That's Charlton Heston.'

'Yes, sir. From Planet of the Apes. Outstanding film.'

'I don't know – I'm not convinced the ape's ammunition supply was sustainable long term.'

'One of my favourites, sir.'

'American actor. American film. Yet he's on the target range behind this building!'

A bit of an oddity, you'd have to agree.

'It was Lieutenant Munroe, sir. He's got a contact at Tangmere's Photo Reconaissance Unit who can gimmick photos.'

"July" was Kirk Douglas, wielding a sword. In our gymnasium.

'Aha! "Spartacus"! Excellent film, Tim. You get a real sense of what a Roman legion must have looked like in the attack.'

'Stanley Kubrick film, sir. For my money, the best director there is.'

'And mentioning money, I take it that some crossed Lieutenant Munroe's palm?

Spofforth admitted that freely.

'Cutting up the photographs takes a lot of fiddling about to make them seem realistic, sir, according to Nick.'

I suddenly realised exactly how Munroe got images of Kirk Douglas and Charlton Heston, and it certainly wasn't thanks to any photographic processing! Leaving him in charge of a polymorphic alien, a seemingly naïve alien to boot, was a major mistake on the Doctor's part.

Not only that, there appeared to be more calendars around Aylesbury. I'd taken the woman in a bikini displayed in the Guard Room to be a cheesecake model, but on closer examination it happened to be Raquel Welsh, draped on the bonnet of a UNIT Landrover. The next month had Sophia Loren in a wet dress, at Aylesbury's swimming pool.

I never discovered whether the rumours of Liz Shaw in a beachwear calendar were true or not, but I subtly put it about that anyone with a calendar like that had better bin it or risk loss of teeth.

No wonder Nick had gone scurrying off to the Outer Hebrides!

After hours of writing up notes on our jaunt to Magellania, I tracked Sarah down in the Doctor's lair.

'The real Sarah?' I asked, just to make sure.

'The one and only!' she replied, full of vim. Catching sight of the foolscap sheaf, she made a face.

'You owe me a special treat for that, John! How much is there here?'

'Aboutfivethousandwords,' I mumbled.

'A nice meal at a restaurant of my choice,' she declared. 'No, not with you,' she continued. 'With John Peel. I want to get more biography out of him.'

'Oh, right – "My cocaine, booze and floozy Hell", eh?' I commented sourly. Sarah smacked me round the chops with my notes.

'How dare you! John Peel is a thoroughly modest and down-to-earth man.'

'Oh,' I replied. I thought all disk jockey's were self-obsessed twods of the first order. Except that wouldn't square with his catching the Tube into London, would it, instead of having his chauffeur drive the Rolls.

'He met President Kennedy, you know,' said Sarah, turning back to her typewriter. 'When he worked in Texas.' She turned round to point a pistol-like finger at me. 'Plus, John, he loves music, unlike you. And you are definitely in my bad books for tempting me away from a trip in the TARDIS.'

My cunning plan to divert Sarah away from the Doctor thus ended up costing me thirty pounds.

Nick came sneaking back to Aylesbury days later, once I'd calmed down. I think the Doctor must have blithely told him about Amalthea and Clara and all our little excitements along the way, because Tad vehemently denied ever mentioning it.

'Let me get this straight,' asked Nick for the umpteenth time, hanging around my office. 'You were on a planet with no men, none at all. A planet with millions of women, some of whom, by the law of averages, must have been good-looking. Yet you hit it off with a green-skinned alien shapeshifter?'

'Don't push it,' I growled.

'Where is she now?'

'The Doctor dropped her and Winifred off on their very own planet. They can look after themselves pretty well.'

A look of huge amusement passed over my comrade's face.

'Winnie is the parent, right? Head of the planet. An alien queen in other words.'

'Stretching a point, but yes.'

'So that makes your girlfriend Clara a green-skinned alien princess! Did she have - '

I'm afraid I threw the sellotape at him.


End file.
